


Four Degrees Celsius

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airplanes, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mountain Shelter, Mountains, Prayer, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Falls, Secrets, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6147895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reichenbach story in the original setting. Sherlock and John move their relationship to the next level at the beginning of their stay in the Bernese Alps.  But as it turns out, there's no time for the two of them. Moriarty is here, and a catastrophe is looming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Challenge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Vier Grad Celsius](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6147482) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> Thank you, SwissMiss for translating this story!  
> "Four Degrees Celsius" is my personal favorite. Maybe because it plays in the landscape that I love and where I live.  
> I am aware of how difficult it was to translate the description of the flora, the fauna and the special cargo transport system. I also realize what a great deal of work it must have been to translate all the quotes.  
> My very special thanks for what you have done!

The alpine lake sprawled across the mountain valley. An unbroken plane in the midst of scruffy green and rock. The blue of the sky reflected in its smooth surface. It was still. Not a soul to be seen. The only signs of life were a water pipit pecking at the pebbles on the shore, looking for something to eat, and far up on the rough cliff face a couple of jackdaws frolicking in the updraft. 

John sat down on a rock between the juniper shrubs and took off his backpack. The rock was warm from the sun. He rummaged around for his water bottle and took a drink. He was thirsty from the ascent, and he was sweating. A good feeling. Physical exertion. A challenge. Solitude. Independence.

A light breeze skittered across the lake, crinkling the surface and grazing John. The scent of water and sun-warmed vegetation. Then a brooding silence fell once again. The lake untouched. The sky blue. John closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the merciless sun beating down on his body. He hadn't felt this since Afghanistan. The intense sensation of being in touch with himself. Being responsible for no one but himself. Being alone. At nature's mercy, and at the same time in full possession of his own strength. A buzzing sense of alertness. Clarity. Self-confidence and the knowledge that his decisions affected only him. Freedom. The cries of the jackdaws. 

John raised his head and looked up at the black birds, enacting their foolhardy stunts up near the summit. Jackdaws mated monogamously, for life.

John stood up and went over to the shallow shore of the lake, squatted down and dipped his hands into the water. It was clear and icy. He scooped the cold liquid up to his face, cooled off the back of his neck. 

Sherlock.

The touch of his own hands on his face and neck, the shock of cold on his heated skin - both reminded him of Sherlock. John stayed crouched where he was, benumbed. Eyes closed. He scooped up more of the ice-cold, clean mountain water, and pressed it against his face with both hands. Sherlock was coming back the next day.

He'd meet him at the Meiringen train station tomorrow. Sherlock had flown back to London for five days. His brother had recalled him from Switzerland almost as soon as they'd arrived. That hadn't changed anything about that first night at the Baer Hotel. The cold mountain air streaming into the room through the open window. The roar of the Reichenbach Falls. The rich darkness of the mountains. The smells of the night. Spicy and foreign. Glacier. Rock. Pine. Juniper. 

They shouldn't have taken a double room.

John cupped his hands and scooped water out of the lake, drank it directly out of his hands. It tasted cold, like minerals. Fresh water. He drank more of it, rinsed off his face, neck, and arms again. He'd longed for this so often in Afghanistan. In that dry, destructive heat. The sun was close here, too; dangerous. But the water sprang directly out of the rocks here, burbled up from between the stones, four degrees Celsius, right out of the mountain, collected in wild streams, hurtled over waterfalls and was everywhere he looked, pristine and fresh. All over. In mind-blowing amounts. Completely safe to drink. Even out of the lake. Was there such a thing as happiness? If so, was this it? Being on his own in the mountains, sun, water, freedom?

They'd left the window wide open. The coolness of the oxygen-rich summer's night. So different than nights in London. The waterfall nearby. The smell of mossy damp and rock. John had crawled under the warm comforter. Listened to the alpine surroundings, breathed in the freshness and the roaring of the waters. Sherlock tossed and turned in the bed next to him. 

They shouldn't have taken a double. 

Sherlock had been restless. He couldn't sleep. Neither of them could. The unaccustomed altitude. A strange bed. Unsettling closeness. John had forced himself to relax, surrendered to exhaustion. He'd dozed off. Moments lost to dreams. A gentle touch on his lips. His lips parted automatically, still half asleep, accepted the contact. Unfamiliar, familiar skin. A delicate play of tongue, lips, fingertips. Arousal spreading. Soft. Warm. Comfort. A smile. Perhaps happiness. 

Sherlock! 

The sudden realisation of what was happening. A bolt of heat flashed through his entire body. And the knowledge that it was too late. That there was no option to resist. That fate took what it wanted. Now. Tonight. No discussion. No more. The hand in his hair. The night, black as coal. Breath on his lips. The heat of another body. A sound. Lust, no longer repressed. A firestorm. Passion released, unrestrained. Strong. Unfettered. Destructive. 

Sherlock had left in the morning. Early. Not a word. The icy blue eyes full of apprehension and questions. The tenderness of the mountain night in his fingers, touching John's just for a brief moment.

It wasn't good for two men to be so close. Not if they were still meant to work together. Not in that way. John had suspected it. To be frank, he'd known it all along. Known this was going to happen. Sooner or later. That there was more between them than they wanted to admit, and that that more could be explicitly defined. That it didn't do any good to turn a blind eye to it.

John felt in his backpack for the granola bar he'd packed along. It was a good point to take a break, stop for a moment, eat something. There was a steep part still ahead. The ascent to the Hochstollen would demand another 500 metres of him. He was going to do it. Just do it. Climb to the top and then walk along the ridge. He wasn't afraid of heights. There were situations in which he could count on himself. For example, crossing a mountain ridge. Climbing a mountain, proving a physical point. He could measure his strength with precision, portion it out. He was more aware than ever that there were also situations in which he lost control over himself, physically and mentally.

He could also leave, tonight or early tomorrow morning. He could double back over Sherlock's path, fly to London while Sherlock flew here. He could still avoid it. Back to London and from there anywhere else. He could still change things. They hadn't spoken, not for the whole five days. Not a single text from Sherlock. John hadn't lifted a finger either. Radio silence. He didn't know what Sherlock was working on in London. He wasn't even entirely sure he was coming back tomorrow.

John had bought a hiking map that same morning, shortly after Sherlock left. First he'd climbed up the Rosenlaui gorge to the Rosenhorn. Then through other gorges, over cliffs, to other mountains, summits, and ridges, past waterfalls and mountain creeks, of which there were so many here. Water. Rock. Solitude. Juniper. A couple of jackdaws. Now and then a groundhog. And the physicality of his body, which he pushed to its maximum. Five days long. At night, he fell exhausted into bed and lost consciousness, worn out. John knew this wasn't the solution. He knew perfectly well he shouldn't punish his body for what had happened. But he allowed himself to make demands of it. He wanted to feel out his limits, mentally and emotionally too, wanted to savour his freedom and enjoy his independence. He needed space to think about everything. He needed to be sure of who he was.

***

The train to Interlaken left at 6:14 a.m., arriving at the Zurich airport at 9:16 a.m. A direct flight at 10:05 a.m. He'd be in London shortly before noon. Before Sherlock's train even reached Meiringen. John had decided in favour of avoidance. He'd come to the decision while hiking along the Hochstollen ridge, steep chasms on either side. He'd become even more sure during the descent. He would take a timeout. At least until things had cooled off. That would be best for both of them.

John ordered a simple meal at the hotel restaurant. Hash browns au gratin, with local cheese from the Alps. He'd showered and freshened up, packed his bags. He was tired and hungry. His leg hurt. After dinner, he ordered a quarter bottle of red wine. He selected a Swiss wine from the Valais region that he was already familiar with. Heavy sun, meagre soil. It wasn't one of the best wines. It was an honest wine from high-altitute vineyards. At the edge of what was possible. It wasn't perfect. It was just what nature allowed it to be. It skirted the limit. Sour, tart, and genuine. The people here drank it out of a sense of sentimentality and patriotism. John felt an affinity to that attitude.

'You're denying yourself pleasure for the sake of your stubbornness,' Sherlock would have said.

'No,' he would have replied, 'I'm exploring the essence of things beyond the limits of my own experience.'

They would have argued. No doubt. Sherlock would have laughed at him. He would have stuck to his guns. 

Sherlock. Would there be any challenges without him? He'd have to start a new life. 

John sipped the wine, leaned back against the wooden bench, stretched out his leg. A life without Sherlock. The thought pained him.

That's when he saw him. No, John wasn't really surprised. It was just like always. Sherlock didn't stick to plans. He wasn't coming back tomorrow. He was walking through the door of the Baer, heading straight for the reception desk, coat on despite the summery weather, towing his trolley case. He hadn't seen John yet, all the way in the back of the restaurant. But it was only a matter of minutes before Sherlock would be standing in front of him. John closed his eyes and decided not to open them again for the time being. His heart was beating rapidly. He registered it and shook his head at himself, albeit not without a wry smile. Theory and practise. No sooner had Sherlock entered his field of vision than his body reacted.

"Can I have the room key?"

John reached for the heavy metal tag attached to the room key which he'd set down on the bench beside him, and placed it on the table. He didn't open his eyes. He heard the rustling of the coat. The sound of metal on wood. Sherlock took the key from the table and walked away. Not a word. John kept his eyes closed. Not until he was sure Sherlock had left the room did he open his eyes and sip some more of his wine. He was going to leave anyway. First thing in the morning.


	2. Have a Pleasant Trip, Mr Watson

"You've packed," Sherlock said.

He stood before his friend, looking down at him, both uncertain and annoyed over the fact that John had his eyes closed and didn't look like he was about to open them.

"Hello, Sherlock."

No response.

"Sit down," John said lightly.

He was still sitting in the furthest corner of the Baer, his wine glass in front of him. The restaurant was almost empty by now. There were just a couple of locals left at their usual table playing cards. Night had fallen outside. John hadn't been able to make himself go up to their room. He'd wanted to wait until it was likely that Sherlock had fallen asleep. Right now it looked like the likelihood of that was approximately zero.

Sherlock stood there, hesitating. Then he sat down after all, dropping grudgingly onto the chair, stiff and ramrod straight, folded his hands on top of the table in front of him. He smelt unshowered after his trip and looked tense. He didn't speak. 

John took his time. He'd planned out how he wanted to face Sherlock: calm and determined. He felt his friend's eyes on him and opened his own eyes now, meeting his gaze head on. A pale, haggard figure. Dark hair, tangled and unkempt. Sherlock looked tired. Harried. They held each other's eye for the span of several heartbeats. Uncertainty in the restlessly flickering, clearwater blue. Serenity in John's grey. 

Sherlock swallowed, lowered his eyes. Then he said, "He's here, John."

"Who's here?"

"Him."

"Who, him?"

"HIM."

"Moriarty? Here in Meiringen? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"What's he doing here?"

Sherlock didn't respond right away, as the waitress came over just then. He ordered a mineral water, no bubbles, and waited until it appeared on the table in front of him. He picked up the glass and took a big sip. Was his hand shaking? John didn't trust his own senses anymore.

"What's he doing here?" John repeated his question as soon as there was no one left within hearing range. 

"He said he was going to burn the heart out of me," Sherlock said.

"Then you'd be safer anywhere else but here," John replied matter-of-factly. "Why did you come?"

It sounded colder than he'd intended. Sherlock looked up, his expression both questioning and incredulous.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," John said. 

"You can't just leave."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"I can only protect you if we remain together, John. He has people everywhere."

"You were gone for five days without a single word."

"I know. You didn't contact me either. He found you anyway."

Anyway. Why anyway? Found him? Him, John? The bitter taste of gall rose to John's throat. His heart clenched uncomfortably. He forced himself to remain calm and managed to cool off a little. He looked Sherlock over carefully. His friend was unsettled.

"What game are you playing, Sherlock?" he asked. "Why are we here?"

Sherlock didn't answer. 

"This is no holiday, is it?" John realised. His anger was audible in his words. "This is about him, about Moriarty."

"Amongst other things," Sherlock answered evasively.

"What other things?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. He leaned back in his chair, tried to relax. He stared at the half-empty glass in front of him for several seconds. There was condensation on the outside from the chill of the water. He reached for it, took a sip. He straightened up in his seat as he set the glass back on the table, deep in thought.

"John," he said. 

It sounded so sentimental that John looked up in surprise. He hadn't wanted to unsettle himself, but the unexpected sadness in the pale eyes startled him.

"I know there are private things we need to set straight between us," Sherlock said. "But now is definitely the wrong time for that. He's here, and he's dangerous. Could we forget everything for a couple of days and concentrate on staying alive?"

And since the man across the table from him didn't respond to that, he added: "I know. It's not easy for me either." He didn't look at John as he said it.

"We'll continue to act as if we were on holiday," Sherlock continued after a while. "We'll go hiking tomorrow."

John shook his head firmly. "My leg hurts and I'm tired, Sherlock. I haven't done anything else the last five days other than climb all the bloody mountains in the area. Rosenhorn, Tschingel, Engelhörner, Balmeregghorn, Hochstollen."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Then let's do something else. Have you been to the Aare gorge yet?"

"Yes."

"Reichenbach?"

"Yes."

"Trümmelbach?"

"No."

"Good, then we'll do Trümmelbach."

"No."

"I can take another room," Sherlock said neutrally, "if you'd prefer."

"You don't need to take another room. I'm leaving in a few hours."

"No, John."

"I've made my decision and it's final," John said. His tone left no doubt whatsoever that that was the case.

Sherlock's taut body seemed to freeze completely. A shiver ran through the weary figure, as if he'd been hit by a blast of ice-cold air. Sherlock didn't look up. He ran both hands over his face, took a deep, pained breath. Then he sat there for several long seconds, elbows propped on the table, his face buried in his hands.

"When?" he asked in resignation.

He slowly lowered his hands, folded them on the table. His face was lined deeply with the signs of exhaustion. John was shocked at his friend's appearance.

"When was the last time you slept?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied evasively. "When are you leaving?"

"6:14 in the morning."

Sherlock nodded tiredly and made as if to stand. John held him back.

"Sherlock..."

"I need to sleep, John. I'll leave the room unlocked."

John let go of his friend's arm. He was met with a wounded look. Sherlock got up and left the room.

***

The alarm on his smart phone buzzed beneath John's pillow, waking him. 5:30 a.m. A new summer's day dawned in the mountains outside. Next to him, burrowed underneath the comforter, Sherlock slept on. John slipped out of the bed and went into the bathroom, showered, cleaned his teeth, and got dressed. He had everything ready. Two shakes later, he stood at the door with his bags. A glance back at the bed. Sherlock was still asleep. The long body was visible beneath the blanket, curled up, dark tangled curls amidst white linen. The sight was unexpectedly painful. John struggled with himself for several moments not to give up all of his plans and get back into bed, to just let everything happen. But then he pulled himself together and left.

A train to Interlaken Ost. Transfer to the Intercity to Berne. Once there, he changed to another train heading for the Zurich airport. A three-hour journey, interrupted by the rush of transfers. It was the hardest trip he'd ever taken.

He emerged from the mountains into the crowded centre of a densely regulated system with strict rules. The further into the background the wild mountainside receded, the more the urban conglomerations prevailed, the more doubts John had that he'd made the right decision. 

Was Moriarty really in Meiringen? Was Sherlock in danger? Should he go back? Let himself be caught up in dangerous, labyrinthine machinations he had no information about? No. Get tangled up in the life of a man he wasn't even sure was a friend anymore? No. He needed some time without Sherlock, needed some distance, needed space. A couple of weeks. On his own. To think. More than anything else, he needed information. Lots of information, which he didn't have.

John cursed Sherlock for never keeping him informed. Neither on personal topics nor where their work was concerned. What was going on in Meiringen? What was happening with Moriarty? Had this been a holiday at the outset, or had something else been planned all along? Was he just bait for Moriarty? Why hadn't he been told anything? He felt like an idiot dangling from a psychopath's puppet strings. Oh yes, he was angry at Sherlock!

Was there even a Sherlock he could trust? Who didn't toy with him? Was there a private Sherlock? Was there a friend? Or was there only a consulting detective who sacrificed everything – absolutely everything – for his calling? And if both Sherlocks existed: how could he tell them apart? John stared out the window at the landscape passing by. He didn't know if there was a private Sherlock he could trust. He'd slept with him, and he didn't even know that much.

He knew the public Sherlock Holmes but that one didn't give John any information either. Maybe John was nothing more than a pawn in a larger game being played by the Holmes brothers. A satellite of the younger one, monitored by the elder. Not important enough to be included. Right. That was no real foundation. Not for any serious kind of work. Let alone for a friendship or even more.

Or was Sherlock just that socially backwards, and simply didn't know how to communicate? How to deal with a relationship? And if so: was that any kind of foundation? No. That was no good either. John wasn't willing to spend his life as a willing victim.

Was there any other path to Sherlock?

As John stared out the window, he realised it wasn't the sexual contact with Sherlock that had driven him away. It was the gravity and obligation that went along with it. This step towards intimacy meant something to him. Not just physically. It meant being allowed into someone else's soul. It meant devotion. Trust. He didn't trust Sherlock. He didn't know - never knew - where he stood with him, what game he was playing. That was sandy ground, and he couldn't build on it.

John was no longer alone in the compartment. He fought the tears that threatened to spill over.

***

Passport check at the Zurich airport. John slid his passport and ticket across the counter, through the slot in the plexiglass pane. The official on the other side took both of them, opened the passport, compared it to John's face with a quick, practised glance, then looked at the ticket. But unlike with the people who'd passed through ahead of John, this time he didn't return the documents promptly. Instead, he turned to his computer with the passport and ticket and started entering data. Apparently John's name and passport number. He reached for the phone, no hurry, turned his back to John and said something in a language John didn't understand. The people queuing behind John gave each other looks. John became suspicious. What was going on? He didn't have much time. The flight left at 10:05 a.m.

"Is there something wrong with my passport?" he asked.

The official turned back to him, smiling. "Routine check," he said calmly. "Everything's in order."

He stuck the ticket into the passport and casually slid both of them back to John through the hole in the plexiglass.

"Gate 23," he said in a friendly tone. "Flight BA 8764 is delayed, you have time. Have a pleasant trip, Mr Watson."

"Thanks," John grunted and set off for gate 23, scowling.


	3. The Weight of Facts

Gate 23 was still closed. The screen over the entrance to the boarding area said that flight BA 8764 to London was delayed by twenty minutes. The flight attendant at the gate was on the phone. Two men in ground crew uniforms stood next to her, talking. The passengers had sat down again, distributing themselves amongst the plastic bucket seats screwed to the floor in the waiting area. John decided to remain standing.

The flight attendant at the gate reached for the microphone. "Doctor John Hamish Watson. Please report to gate 23. Doctor John Hamish Watson," she said, her rich intonation coming through the loudspeakers like a velvety acoustic ribbon being laid on top of the background chatter of the waiting crowd.

No one seemed to be listening. The flight attendant put the microphone away and shuffled the papers in front of her indifferently. John wasn't sure he'd heard right. It took a couple of seconds before he realised in his confusion that she meant him. The two men in uniforms stepped aside and made room for him as he approached the gate. 

The flight attendant looked up. "Doctor John Watson?" she asked.

"Yes."

"May I see your passport?"

John sighed, annoyed, but handed over the wine-red booklet he still held in his hands. The woman opened it and glanced at John before nodding, satisfied.

"These two gentlemen will be escorting you, Doctor Watson," she said, her tone friendly, and handed John's passport to one of the two men. They both looked at him expectantly.

"Excuse me?" John said, now angry. "What is this? I'm waiting for my flight."

"Unfortunately, I'm not at liberty to divulge any further information," the woman replied, still calm and business-like. "But I do recommend that you cooperate. It's the most pleasant option for you and will cause the least trouble for everyone concerned."

John looked at the two men, who were now watching him keenly, the tension in their bodies having increased noticeably.

"Come on," one of them said, nodding at John in invitation. His expression remained friendly, but his smile had disappeared.

John decided to find out what was at the bottom of it, and went with them.

They quickly left the gate behind and went down corridors against the stream of passengers hurrying to their flights. One of John's escorts opened a door on the right side of the corridor with his badge. Internal area. Brightly lit hallway. Smell of paper and electronics. Light grey industrial carpeting. Printer, copier, coffee machine, water dispenser. Office after office. They stopped in front of one of them. The man in uniform handed John back his passport.

"You're expected," he said and opened the door.

Mycroft. 

John didn't know whether to be relieved or furious. The elder Holmes stood at the window, but turned when the door opened.

"Ah! My dear Doctor Watson. Good to see you."

"How did you get here?" John asked in annoyance.

Mycroft smiled. "Oh, it's just a hop, skip and jump. London to Zurich, barely eighty minutes. With my private jet, of course. Your journey from Meiringen by train must have taken – let me see – a hundred and eighty-two minutes. Including transfers. Not including the passport check." Mycroft smirked.

"I assume you have some reason for interrupting my trip?" John said sharply.

"Naturally, John. What must you be thinking. Have a seat." Mycroft indicated a chair. 

"I prefer to stand, and I hope it won't take too long, I'd like to catch my flight," John said.

"Your flight has been cancelled."

"Delayed," John corrected him.

"It's been cancelled by now," Mycroft said. "Bomb threat."

"Excuse me?"

"A bomb threat," Mycroft repeated, nodding at the chair again.

John sat down, adrenaline pumping in his blood. There was a bomb threat, and they were sitting here chatting?

"The aeroplane is currently being searched by a special team," Mycroft explained. "And I felt it wise under these conditions to remove you from air traffic circulation, so to speak. You'll excuse the vulgar expression."

"What conditions are you talking about?"

Mycroft sat down across from John, steepled his fingers and simply observed him for a moment. Then he said, "Well. You won't be flying to London."

"That's where you're wrong," John said.

"Unfortunately, there's an awkward little automatism I feel you should know about," Mycroft said. "Every flight on whose passenger list you appear seems to have a bomb on board."

John felt the blood drain from his face.

"Because of me?" he asked. His voice sounded sceptical. "Why?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "That seems rather obvious, doesn't it?"

"No, it isn't. Who's behind it? You?"

Mycroft pulled a face. "You disappoint me, John. That's not my style. You should know that. Quite the opposite. We were just barely able to stop your flight."

"Is it just a bomb threat, or is there really a bomb on board the plane? This whole thing feels more like a game to me. Who would benefit from killing me?"

Mycroft made that particular face which expressed quite clearly what he thought of people of ordinary intelligence. "Let's put it this way: it is certainly about you, John. And in this context, that means in all probability it concerns my brother. You must understand why I felt I had no choice but to intervene. Family relations and all that." Mycroft lifted his shoulders in an apologetic gesture.

"Where is Sherlock?" John asked.

"Precisely where you left him this morning. And if I might ask that you not reserve any more plane tickets in the near future. We'll bring you to the hospital in Meiringen with a medical transport flight. You'll be travelling as an emergency physician tending to a ten-year-old with a fractured leg. Oh, and before I forget - your luggage is here."

Mycroft pointed to the suitcase standing next to the desk.

John shook his head in aggravation. "Listen to me," he said. "I'm on my way to London and I don't feel like being dragged into your games. I'm a free man."

"Oh please! You can't possibly be that naïve."

John remained stubbornly silent.

"You don't believe me?" Mycroft asked.

"Sorry, but no. I've been through too many Holmesian games before. I'm done. I want to live MY life, got it?"

"No," said Mycroft. "No, I haven't 'got it'. What about Sherlock?"

John took a deep breath. Sherlock. "I don't think that's any of your business," he retorted.

"That's where you are fundamentally mistaken, Doctor," Mycroft said matter-of-factly. "Both in your assessment of the situation and in the motivations of the Holmeses."

He pushed a couple of buttons on the intercom system on the desk. "Connect me with the head of the special task force," he said. And after a couple of seconds: "Reuben Hadley? Anything to report? - One moment!" Mycroft pushed the loudspeaker button.

_"… in the baggage hold. It's a highly complicated device, no timer. We don't know how the detonator is triggered yet. Our experts are working on it."_

"Thank you, Reuben," Mycroft said. "Keep us apprised."

_"Will do, sir."_

Mycroft looked over at John. "Well?" he said. "Does that answer any doubts you might still have?"

John slowly shook his head. "Let me get out now, Mycroft," he pleaded.

"That's not possible, John. The timing..."

A blast tore through the air. The window panes rattled and the building was shaken by a heavy shock wave. John and Mycroft both sprang up, staring at each other in shock for a moment. John was about to run out, but Mycroft barked at him, "Stop! You're staying here, John!"

"I'm a doctor!"

"Stay here!"

Mycroft held onto him with an iron grip. His fingers dug into John's arm, hard, so painful that he stopped short in surprise.

"The machine is off the runway, the surrounding area is cordoned off. Only the two experts are on board," Mycroft said. "… were on board," he corrected himself. "There's nothing more to be done for them." His voice was controlled, but his face was ashen, his lips a thin, hard line.

John took a shaky breath, tried to get himself under control, to calm himself. They looked at each other, not saying a word. Outside, the first fire engine sirens could be heard.

"We'll take you out of here now," Mycroft said. "My colleague will accompany you to the medevac helicopter. In your own interest."

Mycroft pushed a button. "Peter?"

A man in uniform opened the door and looked in, nodding to John. It was one of the same men who had brought him there.

John stayed where he was for a moment, unsure what he was meant to think or feel. Then he decided to bow to the weight of the facts.

"Looks like I don't really have any choice," he said, looking at Mycroft. "At any rate, thank you, Mycroft. It looks like you've saved my life."

"You're welcome. I did it for my brother."

They met each other's gaze. "You're entirely wrong, you know," Mycroft said, "including about my brother, Sherlock." He turned away, showing John his back, a clear signal that he had nothing further to say and that John should leave.

John grabbed his trolley case and went over to Peter, who was waiting for him at the door. Then he reconsidered, left the suitcase where it was and walked back into the room. "Give me some point of reference," he said to Mycroft, who was still standing with his back to John, looking out the window at the frantic activity triggered by the explosion.

"In reference to what?" Mycroft asked without turning around.

"Sherlock," John said.

Mycroft turned now, giving John a curious once-over from head to foot as if he were laying eyes on him for the first time.

"Have you read Saint-Exupéry?" he asked.

"No."

Mycroft made a face. Disdainful perhaps, pitying, disgusted. "Start with _The Little Prince_ ," he said, turning away again. The unambiguous hand gesture made it clear that John was dismissed.


	4. The Colour of Wheat

_Translator's note: This chapter contains quotes from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's "The Little Prince". Some of them have been altered slightly to fit the structure of the story._

 

John arrived at the Baer Hotel shortly after 3 p.m. He'd walked from the hospital. Meiringen was small. Sherlock wasn't at the hotel. The man at the reception desk said Mr Holmes had left the building around 11 a.m. intending to visit the Giessbach Falls. Sherlock had left the key behind. John went up to their room. The maid service had made the beds and aired the room. 

John took a shower and thought about what had happened in the course of the past several hours. He'd left Sherlock here in Meiringen, completely exhausted. He'd narrowly escaped death. A bomb had exploded, costing two people their lives. Someone was trying to kill him - or was at least heavily invested in making it look as if they were. Moriarty might really be in Meiringen. Sherlock might be on his way to the Giessbach Falls. Or not. He had no idea where Sherlock was or what he had planned. His things were still in the room, so he must be coming back. Did Sherlock know about what had happened?

John was angry. Mycroft had returned him to Meiringen by the most direct route. He was back where he'd started out that morning. The Holmeses did whatever they wanted with him. He was never asked. And if his life truly was in danger, it was being around the Holmeses that made it so.

John felt betrayed. He considered leaving again. Taking the train to Geneva and crossing the border there into France, going on to the coast, through the Chunnel or taking the ferry across the canal. It wasn't a problem getting to London without a plane. 

John started up his laptop and looked up train connections. Departing Meiringen at 5:21 p.m., arriving at London St Pancras next morning at 10 a.m. But he'd need to change stations in Paris. That was annoying. The next best connection left Meiringen at 9:18 p.m. that night. Sherlock might already be back by then. That was no good.

John decided to take the next train to Geneva and spend the night there, then continue on the next day. Departing Meiringen at 4:21 p.m. Then he'd be in Geneva at 7:47 p.m. If he left right away, he could make the train.

***

John was alone in his compartment and having second thoughts. Why hadn't Sherlock contacted him? He considered sending him a text but was afraid to because he didn't know if by doing so he would be endangering Sherlock. He was worried. Sherlock was so far away. So far away. Any other distance would be less painful than this uncommunicative alienation from each other. It had existed since they'd slept together and Sherlock had left for London right away without any further contact. They should have made time for each other after taking that step. They should have talked. Should John make a move toward him rather than running away? 

He looked out the window and thought about it. He understood Sherlock less than ever before. He simply needed some time away from him. Not a separation. A couple of days or weeks to get straight in his own head what it was that he wanted. Because – and this was abundantly clear to John – they'd added a component to their relationship that they would no longer be able to deny.

Maybe, John thought, he'd try to call Sherlock tonight from Geneva. Maybe they'd be able to hold a conversation if – or precisely because – three hundred kilometres lay between them. John rummaged around in his bag and took out the little book Mycroft had recommended to him. _The Little Prince_. He'd bought it at the bookstore on the way from the hospital to the hotel in Meiringen. It was illustrated by the author himself and looked like a children's book.

_My friend never explained anything to me. He thought, perhaps, that I was like himself. But I, alas, do not know how to see sheep through the walls of boxes._

John stared at the words. They could have been his own. A surprising book. John read on, intrigued. And as he sat there in the train, travelling away from Sherlock, he entered a world with Saint-Exupéry that led him back towards him.

The astonishing story about the rose thorns. A sheep also eats flowers with thorns. What, then, are the thorns good for? Why do flowers go to the effort, if they are going to be eaten anyway? The little prince was sick with fear for his flower:

_Flowers are naïve. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons . . . My flower has only four thorns to defend herself against the world. And I have left her all alone! If someone loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars. He can say to himself, 'Somewhere, my flower is there . . .' But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened . . ._

All of the stars darkened. Sherlock. John's breath caught in his throat. He swallowed, stopped reading, looked out the window. Then he closed his eyes for several long moments. As long as Sherlock was out there somewhere, he felt that deep down, he would continue to be connected to him. Could Moriarty darken all of his stars? What painful poetry. Saint-Exupéry drew the little prince a muzzle for the sheep so it couldn't eat his flower. He realised too late, however, that it was worthless because he'd forgot to draw the strap to fasten the muzzle to the sheep. A single moment of inattentiveness. Misunderstanding the importance of a single detail. Everything lost.

John took a deep breath, let it out shakily. What kind of book was this that Mycroft had dumped on him? The Holmes brothers. Was he wrong about them? What was Mycroft's objective? Was this all in earnest, or a new game? 

The little prince's fears for his flower, which was under constant threat. Doubting his love for her. She was so hard to understand. So contradictory. So high maintenance. He'd interpreted trivial words as deadly serious, had become unhappy as a result of the misunderstanding. Had fled. The realisation came too late:

_One never ought to listen to the flowers. One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance. Mine perfumed all my planet. I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her . . . I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems._

Guessed all the affection that lay behind the stratagems. John shivered. Was that the message? Sherlock made his life complete. Yes. Sherlock filled his planet with fragrance, with colour, with his presence. 

John was fascinated by the pictures, and at the same time he was irritated by how emotional his response to them was. He interpreted everything, every word, of what he read as relating to Sherlock. He was painfully aware of that. The words were so simple and precise that he couldn't escape them. Especially not the story of the fox. John read it with his heart in his throat.

_"Please, tame me!" said the fox. "If you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . . I do not eat bread. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. But you have hair that is the color of gold. The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . ."_

And when the hour of his departure drew near--

_"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince._

_"Yes, that is so," said the fox._

_"Then it has done you no good at all!"_

_"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields."_

The fragrance of adventure, John thought in surprise. Sherlock. The fragrance of adventure at his friend's side. And the premonition of love. The thorns of a flower that is willing to endure the pain of being chewed on by caterpillars because it wants to see the butterflies. 

_Please. Tame me!_

Sherlock?

_"But you must not forget," said the fox. "You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart . . ."_

John set the book aside and stared out the window. He inhaled deeply. His heart was pounding. Damn it! What lesson was Mycroft trying to teach him?

'Damned Holmeses.' His lips formed the words soundlessly.

And since he felt that it would do him good to give those words form, he whispered, "Damned Holmeses!"

The young woman who'd boarded the train in Berne was dozing with the earbuds of her iPod in her ears and didn't notice. John felt he needed more to rid himself of his burden, and said softly, "Sherlock."

The name reverberated within him, and he needed a moment to gather himself. Then he finished reading the book, stunned at the little prince going to his death filled with longing and grief. Letting himself be bitten by the poisonous snake.

_"Tonight--you know . . . Do not come."_

_"I shall not leave you," I said._

_"I shall look as if I were suffering. I shall look a little as if I were dying. It is like that. Do not come to see that. It is not worth the trouble . . ."_

_"I shall not leave you."_

_"I tell you--it is also because of the snake. He must not bite you. Snakes--they are malicious creatures. This one might bite you just for fun . . ."_

_"I shall not leave you."_

_"It is true that they have no more poison for a second bite."_

John closed the book and set it on the shelf. He sat there, numb, for several seconds, tried to get a hold of himself. Then he got up, went to the loo on board, washed his hands and face with cold water. He returned to his compartment and sat down, looking out the window without registering anything of the landscape. The little book - he'd read it in less than an hour - left behind both a sense of warmth and of disquiet. As if a new layer had been ripped open in him. An emotional layer. Did he see Sherlock with his heart? Mycroft? The world? The intense words and images churned around inside him. The merciless outcome of the story scared him. And there was also affection and a connection to Sherlock.

 _The Little Prince_ wasn't a children's book at all. It was an analysis of friendship and love on a philosophical and emotional level that unsettled him deeply. It was as if someone had come up with the exact words eighty years ago that were missing between himself and Sherlock. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. A daredevil pilot and poet. A man like Sherlock. Roaming restlessly in the service of others, constantly in mortal danger. Reliant upon friendship, yet a loner. Closed off. Full of longing and grief.

John couldn't stop thinking about the fact that the recommendation for the book had come from Mycroft. Maybe that's why he was interpreting everything in relation to himself and Sherlock. Or what else might Mycroft mean? Was he addressing the situational danger? The sheep without a muzzle, the small but deadly error with the missing strap. Even though it would have been enough to simply draw the strap. The useless thorns. The snake which bit out of malice but cooperated in a voluntary death. The remark that there wasn't enough poison for a second bite. Could Moriarty be outwitted in that way? Offer him one bite so there wouldn't be enough poison for a second?

John's smart phone alert sounded, tearing him out of his thoughts. A text had come in.

_John? SH_

Sherlock! John was disorientated at first, needed a moment to decide how to reply.

_Yes? Where are you? JW_

_Unimportant. Are you waiting for me? SH_

_I'm on a train. JW_

_To where? SH_

_Geneva. JW_

It took a few seconds before the next text arrived.

_How can I reach you? SH_

_I'll ring you as soon as I arrive. 8 pm. JW_

_And now? Can you talk? SH_

John glanced at the young woman. It looked like she was asleep. But prudence was the better part of valour. 

_Limited. JW_

_Enough. SH_

John's phone rang a moment later. Sherlock's number. John accepted the call.

"Yes?" he said as neutrally as possible.


	5. Part of the Way

"Just a second..." The sounds of typing in the background. "Your train leaves Geneva at 8:15 tonight. You'll be in Meiringen at 11:41. I'll pick you up."

John forced himself to listen and breathe slow and easy. 

"If you change your mind, John, let me know." Sherlock's voice low and smooth. John closed his eyes. "Even if you don't come back to Meiringen, John, stay away from the border. You won't get across. Stay in Switzerland. Avoid anything that might identify you. Do you hear me?"

"Who?" John asked, his voice flat.

"I'll explain everything as soon as you're here."

"There are only two possibilities, right?"

"Wrong."

"Who?"

"Not over the phone."

John took a deep breath. "How am I supposed to decide if..."

"Just come back, John. Please..." And when John didn't respond to that: "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Trust me. Please."

John didn't say anything.

"Come back, John," Sherlock said weakly, adding in an even smaller voice, "I don't just mean for the job."

"I know."

After a long silence, John said in a low voice, "We should talk."

"We will."

John still had his eyes closed. "Good," he said softly. "See you."

"See you," Sherlock said hesitantly. And before John could ring off: "John?"

John waited. A long time. Breath in his ear. Sherlock. Not speaking. 

"Yeah?" he asked when nothing further came from Sherlock's end.

"See you," Sherlock said softly and ended the call.

_Me too_ , John thought, startled by the words he was putting into his friend's mouth.

_"What makes the desert beautiful," said the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well . . ."_

***

Sherlock was at the station. John saw him right away. He went to the tall, slender figure standing there motionless, enveloped in the dark coat. It was cold at this altitude at this time of night. Sherlock spread his arms as John approached him, hugged him cautiously. John wasn't prepared for that. This was a new thing from Sherlock. An unfamiliar gesture. John was out of sorts and tense, felt stiff and clumsy in Sherlock's arms, sensed the uncertainty, the other man's hesitancy, the hard, gaunt frame that couldn't seem to reach his. He couldn't just hug Sherlock after all that had happened. He couldn't simply accept what Sherlock was offering. Sherlock couldn't give him what he needed right now, not like this. 

John pressed his face into his friend's shoulder, tried to keep his breathing measured, to shake off the confusion, to focus on the familiar scent. Sherlock was coming to him, trying to pick up where they'd left off, to create intimacy. John knew how difficult that was for him. He tried to respond to it. 

"Sherlock, wait," John whispered when his friend started to let go and pull back. A chance. They deserved a chance. Both of them. Sherlock waited. John tried to relax. A hand caressed his back. Breath in his ear, strange and intense. Sherlock. John closed his eyes, felt the tension drain away and warmth begin to flow between them. Sherlock's arms holding him closer, gentle, affectionate. A soft sigh. John accepted the invitation, let himself lean into Sherlock, burrowed into the coat, the man, his skin.

Not too many moments later, they were walking down the street to the hotel, close together, John with his suitcase. They didn't speak. It wasn't far to the Baer.

"Tell me what's going on, Sherlock," John said as soon as they were in their room.

"I've swept the room for bugs and didn't find any," Sherlock said. "That doesn't necessarily mean anything, however."

John nodded. He understood. He sat down on the bed. Sherlock beside him.

"You know what happened to me today?"

"The media are reporting an accident stemming from a technical defect at the Zurich airport. A brief item, thirty lines. Two technicians died," Sherlock said.

"Yeah. I read it," John said. He reached for the hotel stationery on the desk and wrote: _Was it a bomb?_

"I don't know," Sherlock said. It sounded sincere. He reached for the note pad and wrote: _It's a complicated case, multiple players: NDB, SIS, Mycroft, arms dealers, Moriarty._

The Swiss and British intelligence agencies? Arms dealers? Moriarty? John gaped. 

"And you?" he asked.

_Involved,_ Sherlock wrote.

John pointed to himself with a questioning expression.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"But I don't know in what capacity, right?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Do you know?"

Sherlock nodded.

John wrote: _Tell me_

Sherlock didn't react. John looked into his eyes, saw the struggle there.

Then Sherlock wrote: _I can't give you that information._

_Why not?_

_Too dangerous._

_For who?_

_For you. And for me as well._

John took a deep breath, then let it out noisily. It was just as he'd feared. He was a pawn, wasn't being kept informed. He felt sick to his stomach, betrayed. 

He took the pad of paper and wrote: _Someone won't let me leave Switzerland. Who?_ His scrawling script made it clear how disappointed and angry he was.

Sherlock wrote back: _NDB, Mycroft_

That was unexpected. They were on Sherlock's side. Swiss intelligence. The Holmeses. Bitter gall rose to the back of John's throat. 

He wrote the most obvious conclusion: _Am I bait?_

"No," Sherlock said quietly.

"Then what?"

"I need you here, John."

"Then you can simply tell me why, can't you? Give me the information, include me. Like you have before."

Sherlock wrote: _I don't know enough myself. It's too risky for us to split up. It's dangerous._

_Do you have a plan?_

_Not yet._

Following a moment of silence between them, Sherlock said, "I need you to trust me, John."

John wrote: _If M is pressuring you, wouldn't it be better to make it look like we AREN'T together?_

"That's not true though, John," Sherlock said calmly, adding in writing: _M knows we are_

"All right," John said, and wrote: _Then we'll do the opposite so we can--_ John abruptly broke off and looked at Sherlock.

"Is that why you wanted to... with me..."

The blood drained out of Sherlock's face.

"No!" he said, alarmed. "No, John. That's not why."

John didn't hear the words or the shocked tone. He tossed the pad of paper carelessly onto the bed and got up, pacing back and forth. Incredulous, disappointed and hurt. He clenched his fists. It had been a mistake to come back here! To trust this man. He wanted to get away. Away! To flee. He looked at his suitcase. The single glance was enough to alarm Sherlock.

"No!" Sherlock cried frantically.

John's eyes flashed. He stood in front of Sherlock where he still sat on the bed, looked grimly down at him. 

"If it's true, Sherlock," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "if you slept with me to send a signal to Moriarty, then you went too far. You'll pay for that."

Sherlock raised his hand. "John. You're jumping to the wrong conclusions."

"Then correct me."

"It was a coincidence."

"Oh, right. Pure coincidence. How stupid do you think I am?"

"John! Please..."

John fell silent. Sherlock lowered his eyes, took a deep, shaky breath. Then he looked up, met John's gaze. 

"There's a personal angle that has nothing to do with any of this," he said softly.

"And that is?"

Sherlock appeared to be searching for the right words. "There are things," he said softly, "that I no longer wish to live without."

"What things, Sherlock?"

"You. And what's between us."

"What's between us?" John probed.

"Why are you asking that? You know the answer."

"How about you? Do you know it too?" The reproach was clear.

Sherlock closed his eyes. His breaths were laboured and he didn't say anything for a while. Then he answered softly, "Why are you speaking to me like this, John? I'm begging you, stop it. You know I can't pretend at the depth of intimacy that exists between us." 

His voice was laced with pain. John inhaled sharply. Sherlock's words made him shiver. Made him realise all at once that something had changed between them. These words were new. New emotions. A painful, deep, delicate layer. What had he got himself into? Sherlock was right. He knew neither of them was capable of pretending at what was between them. Not on any level of their relationship.

John didn't know what to say. He sat down on the bed beside Sherlock, subdued. 

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. His voice trembled. He looked into his friend's pale eyes, and Sherlock did something so unexpected that it threw John completely off balance at first. He extended his fingers and touched John's hand.

"You're important," Sherlock said, his voice soft.

John swallowed and closed his eyes. He was confused. He didn't know what he was meant to think or feel; he felt numb.

"Do you hear me, John?" Sherlock asked with concern.

"Yeah."

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

John looked up. The emotions were clear in Sherlock's eyes. Filled with words that had never been said. Fear. Admissions that remained unspoken. Perhaps forever. John swallowed. His heart hurt. He turned his hand over and grasped his friend's fingers.

"Yes. I understand. Forgive me."

They looked into each other's eyes, an open channel of emotion for several long seconds. A current between their hands. Warmth suffused John's body, kicking his pulse up a notch. Alongside the tough, brilliant consulting detective, this Sherlock existed too. This extraordinary, bottled-up man who was opening himself to John, allowing all of this for him. Closeness. Connection. Affection.

"Nothing will be happening tomorrow," Sherlock said. "Let's do an outing." He gently withdrew his hand from his friend's, picked up the stationery pad and wrote: _Tomorrow - arms dealers in Ballenberg, all occupied._

_M?_ John wrote back.

"Yes, also," Sherlock said and asked, "Should we go to the Rosenlaui gorge?" He wrote concurrently: _We can talk on the way._

"Fine," John sighed.

They stayed sitting next to each other on the bed for a long time, not saying anything. 

At some point, Sherlock spoke again: "If the room really is bugged, we have a problem."

John laid his hand on Sherlock's arm, rubbed it affectionately. He was exhausted. He stood up after a few minutes, went into the bathroom and showered the day away.

When John came back to the bedroom, Sherlock was lying in bed. He wasn't asleep yet. John got in beside him. They rolled toward each other and looked into each other's eyes. The moon shone brightly through the wide-open window, and they made love for the second time. They didn't say anything, just like the first time. And, just like the first time, Sherlock started by touching John's face. Uncertain. Questioning. But this time John was awake, and he hesitated for several long moments. He placed his hand on top of his friend's and interrupted the inquisitive fingers, looked him in the eye. He felt the rapid pulse in Sherlock's hand, the warmth of his skin. He saw the pale eyes, wide open and vulnerable. His fingers caressed the sinewy back of Sherlock's hand, and his breaths came more rapidly. He couldn't control it, and he didn't want to. Their fingers interlaced, ardent, and a wave of heat and eagerness flooded over John. This time he was the one who leaned into his friend, taking Sherlock's lips between his, gentle yet demanding.

Desire exploded between them, strong and wild. They let it overtake them, no questions asked, not thinking about it, let themselves be carried away by the breathless fever. There were no games. They made love, honestly, intimately, quickly. Fast, like the first time. It was only a matter of minutes before they arrived unerringly at the finish line, eagerly letting themselves be swept across it. Sherlock gasped and writhed, and the moonlit ecstasy of his friend immediately carried John over the edge too. A heartbeat later, he dug his fingers into the dark curls, and they kissed each other in the ebbing rush of their joining, desperate and tender.

They lay beside each other, slowly coming down, watching each other. Neither of them spoke. Sherlock had placed his hand in John's. There was nothing that needed to be said. Eventually Sherlock drifted off and turned away in his sleep. John lay awake for a while. In awe of what had happened here. Preoccupied by how strongly they reacted to each other, and how naturally their desire led them to each other. How simple. It was easier to sleep with Sherlock than to talk to him, John thought with a smile before he fell asleep too.

_One never ought to listen to the flowers. One should simply breathe their fragrance._

***

The early morning sun was shining through the window when John woke up. Sherlock's side of the bed was empty. John heard the shower running. Sherlock came back into the room a little while later. He was nude, rubbing his hair dry with the towel.

"All right for you?" Sherlock asked when he registered John's surprised expression.

John looked at his naked friend, becoming aware that there was more than just the night. There was also day. Light. Sun. Work. Other people. The daily grind. That the events of the night had an influence on the day as well. 

Before John could formulate a reply, Sherlock asked, "Does it bother you?"

John shook his head. "No," he said.

"But?"

"I just realised that this changes the way we live."

Sherlock smiled. "Do you think you can handle it?" he asked.

"I think so."

Sherlock sat down on the bed next to John, looked into his eyes. "Sure?" he asked.

John held his gaze. That had changed too. The way Sherlock looked at him. They'd never looked deeply into each other's eyes in the light of day since they'd slept together. So close, so direct. Sherlock's eyes were unusually light and beautiful.

"What are you deducing?" John asked when he saw a brief glow flare up in his friend's eyes.

Sherlock hesitated a moment. Then he said, soberly, "I think you know."

He stood up slowly and started to get dressed. John closed his eyes. He'd never seriously considered using the word love for a man before. This was the first time.

***

John clung to the metal railing. The roaring of the Trümmelbach Falls thrummed in his ears, in his whole body. The spray of the glacial water stole his breath away. The deep, rhythmic beating threatened to knock him off his feet. It shook all of his foundations: physical, mental, emotional. It was as if he were in a trance. The indescribable noise of the rushing, frothing, swirling water forcing its way through narrow chasms, storming through rock basins worn smooth, chasing its way to the bottom with a monstrous force, clamourously smashing against the cliffs with its explosive energy, spewing water droplets, gravel, and cold in every direction. John had never experienced anything like it before. Frenetic waters, deep inside the mountain. The dim, droning cavern. Wet. Untamed. Breathtaking. 

Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder, and John turned his head. Water dripped from Sherlock's hair, ran down his face. He was smiling. A joyous blue in the luminous glare of the wildly raging water. John, numbed by the frantic power of the place, embraced Sherlock. Cold, wet cheeks, icy lips. The pulse of the misty spray. They smiled at each other. Then Sherlock signalled that he wanted to go down. The tumult of the water didn't allow them to communicate verbally.

They slowly descended, stopping now and then, looking around in amazement. Gurgling funnels, overflowing pools, spraying spume. Then it became warmer, calmer. The bright sun at the cave mouth, blue sky. An exchange of sensations that was almost impossible to bear. On the other side of the valley were the Staubbach Falls, hurtling 300 metres down a vertical drop, the water nebulising in the summer air. 

They clambered through the open gorge further back into the valley, stopping somewhere along the way so that Sherlock could say, "Something's coming that we need to discuss, John."

 

_Author's Note: NDB = Nachrichtendienst des Bundes (Swiss intelligence agency); SIS = Secret Intelligence Service (British intelligence agency)_


	6. Three Maps

John jolted awake. It was still dark. He groped cautiously around. Sherlock. He was still there. In bed beside him, asleep. John ran his hand over his face, relieved. The clock read 2:16 a.m. It wasn't time yet. John took a deep breath. He should sleep. He needed to be fit the next day. But he was scared. Scared that something might go wrong. Scared of Moriarty and his perverse criminal intelligence. Scared for Sherlock.

John forced himself to take measured breaths and relax. He was a soldier. No one slept easy before a battle. Everyone was scared. But there was also that knowledge, that trust that it was okay. Even if you didn't sleep. The body would produce enough adrenaline for whatever needed to be done out there, even without enough sleep. You could rely on that. John could rely on that. No soldier made a calculation measuring up life or death. Whatever happened, happened. John wasn't afraid for himself.

"John?" Sherlock turned over, half asleep. A hand brushed John, wrapped around his shoulder. "You need to sleep, John," Sherlock whispered. "Just sleep, come on."

The blanket was pulled up and tucked in around him. Underneath it there was heat, the smell of his friend, a warm body snuggling up to his, arms encircling him. Breath on his throat, at the nape of his neck, hot and thick with sleep, that irresistible trust, the comfort of the night, complete relaxation. John closed his eyes, somewhat taken aback at Sherlock's behaviour, surprised at how safe he felt in his friend's arms, in the musky-familiar emanations of their togetherness.

When John woke the next time, Sherlock was gone. 5:42 a.m. Sherlock was probably on his way to the Dossen lodge already, to the meeting with Moriarty. 2,663 metres above sea level. At least a four-hour ascent. Sherlock would want to be there before noon, before Moriarty arrived. John got dressed as fast as he could. Weather-proof clothing. Hiking shoes. The route led up a steep staircase, trails and ladders secured with chains, he needed to be sure-footed. A backpack with energy bars, fructose tablets and a drink. John had prepared everything in secret the night before.

Sherlock had asked him to stay here at the Baer while he went to meet Moriarty in the Dossen lodge. Moriarty wanted to speak to him in private, and he'd promised. John was supposed to stay at the hotel, secure the base camp of the operation, serve as the intermediary between Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Mycroft will back me up with a medevac helicopter," Sherlock had said. "It's too dangerous to operate from the ground, the terrain is too mountainous. I need you to act as the contact point at the Baer."

John had shaken his head. "No, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you alone with him up there."

"You have to. I need you at the hotel."

"I'm not leaving you alone with him."

"John! Don't interfere with my plan, please."

"I'm not leaving you alone."

"There's nothing you can do for me up there. You'll be endangering the mission, that's all."

"What mission?"

"John! Please! It's all been planned out. Everyone knows what to do. Nothing can happen. We need you at the Baer."

"Why? Why can't I come along?" John had asked. "You know I'm not going to stay here."

Sherlock had reached for John's hands, taken them in his. "Don't you understand? Moriarty wants YOU, John," he'd said softly. "He wants you because he knows in doing so he'll control of my heart."

They'd looked into each other's eyes then. A long time.

"He's counting on you coming, John," Sherlock had said. "That's why it's important that you do NOT do precisely that. Do you understand? It's important that you remain safe."

They'd held each other's gaze. Unease between them. John had remained stubborn. Sherlock had got up, paced back and forth, then stopped in front of John.

"Promise me," he'd demanded, his clearwater eyes filled with fear.

John hadn't answered for a long time. Then he'd looked up into his friend's eyes and surrendered with a sigh: "All right, fine. Tell me what I'm supposed to do."

 

John took the backpack and set off for the bus that would take him to the Rosenlaui gorge. He'd hike up to the Dossen lodge from there. He'd already made his decision yesterday, even as Sherlock had explained to him what he was meant to do at the Baer. It was just a distraction. John didn't have any real function at the hotel. The blather about being a contact point was nothing more than a ruse to keep him away from the lodge. John had decided to pretend he was going along with the game. He wasn't going to leave Sherlock alone with Moriarty. Moriarty was Sherlock's equal. That was far too dangerous. That much was clear to John. He wasn't going to stick to the agreement. Not this time.

***

John hiked up the Rosenlaui gorge the way he already knew. At the top was the trail to the Engelhorn lodge he'd hiked a week ago. The trail to the Dossen lodge veered off here, and pretty soon John left the forest behind, following the Dossen trail across barren rock. A lonely desert of stone. A moraine landscape. Steep and remote. Vertical rock faces. All alone. The shriek of a jackdaw. Up here? 

Uncertainty in front of a steep wall. Then he saw the path. It was signalled by the usual white-blue-white marking found up here in the mountains. A safe passage. It was quiet. Here in the shade of the ravine, the moisture from the night still clung to the mountain, clammy; the smell of water and insensate cold. The panting coming from his own body too loud. Was Sherlock walking this very trail somewhere? What about Moriarty? There was another way to get to the Dossen lodge, from the Urbach valley. Were they coming that way? Or was Sherlock being dropped off by helicopter? How about Moriarty?

An expanse of crushed rock. The Rosenlaui bivouac perched up to the left like a swallow's nest in the midst of the solitude. A peculiar structure. John couldn't imagine anyone willingly spending the night there.

John was breathing hard when he reached the Urbach saddle. The sky dark blue. Snow and ice fields reflecting the blinding white morning light. High alpine landscape. Raw rock. John took a long break, ate something, drank some tea. Had Sherlock really come up here? Was he walking somewhere up ahead? He was probably already at the lodge. It was shortly after 10 a.m. The last portion of the ascent. The roar of the mountain creek everywhere in the isolated surroundings. John climbed up, hands and feet, wheezing breaths.

The Dossen lodge stood peacefully on the rock, the red shingles lit up by the morning sun. Next to it the grey annex with its light-coloured shutters. The Swiss flag hung limp on the flagpole. Colourful laundry on a line. John snuck carefully around the house. He didn't see anyone.

The door was wide open. John went in. Smells from the kitchen. Someone singing softly. A woman's voice. John made sure his gun was close at hand inside his hiking jacket. Then he peered into the room. A woman stood at the sink, slender and wiry, short dark hair. Middle-aged. Maybe around forty. She was peeling potatoes and singing to herself. She looked up as John stepped into the doorway. A smile.

"Hello, welcome to the Dossen lodge," she said cheerfully. She wiped off her hands on the towel and came toward John, smiling, shook his hand. "I'm Celine, the caretaker."

"John Watson," John introduced himself.

"Ah! Mr Watson. You're part of the foreign delegation of the Swiss Alpine Club, aren't you? You're the first one. The others aren't here yet. Follow me."

Celine led John into the restaurant area, brought him a coffee and a croissant filled with nut paste. Then she sat down to join him.

"You came up on foot, I see. What are your plans? Are you going to continue on from here?"

John shook his head. "I'm going back to Meiringen," he said.

"That's good," Celine said. "The weather's going to turn. You should start back soon. Before three o'clock at any rate. Or are you flying back with the others?"

"Am I the only one on foot?" John asked cautiously. He made an effort not to let on that he wasn't part of the foreign delegation of the SAC, which was apparently being expected. He was certain that was just the cover for the meeting between Moriarty and Sherlock.

"Two choppers are scheduled just before noon," Celine said. "I don't know if everyone will be flying." She checked her watch. "There's still some time before then. Maybe someone else will still be arriving on foot. I'm going back to the kitchen. Feel free to have a look around. We don't have any other guests at the moment. The next group won't be arriving until this evening on their way down from the Wetterhorn."

She got up and left. John didn't need to be told twice, and went to inspect the buildings. Both empty. John decided to wait and sat down on a bench behind the house, shielded from the view of any guests who might be coming up. The wind had picked up. Where was Sherlock? John took out his smart phone. No reception. Of course. What else had he expected. You could probably only contact the lodge via a special radio frequency.

The approaching clatter of a rotor startled John. He immediately went into the house to the laundry room and watched out the window as the helicopter with SwissHelicopter markings unloaded two people onto the platform in front of the lodge without touching down, then promptly took off again. No sooner had it cleared the space than a Valair helicopter arrived, likewise discharged two people and left again right away - all without setting down. 

None of the new arrivals was Sherlock. None of them was Moriarty. It was almost twelve o'clock. Damn it. What game was being played here? John was more certain than ever that his presence at the Dossen lodge was absolutely essential. This looked like a trap. He decided to wait and see what happened for the time being. But he hadn't reckoned with Celine.

"Mr Watson," she called through the house. "Your party is here!"

Damn it!

None of the four gentlemen introduced themselves by name. They sat at a table all the way in the back in the restaurant and waved Watson over. Not unfriendly by any means. John decided to play along.

"Please have a seat, Mr Watson," one of them said, indicating an empty chair.

He was French, to judge by the accent. John sat down and observed all four men. They all appeared to be armed. Two of them to the teeth. Apparently the bodyguards. 

The one who had already addressed John said, "EADS, I represent France. This is my German colleague." He gestured toward the other businessman, who nodded silently at John. "May we see the plans?"

Plans? What was going on? EADS? European Aeronautic Defence and Space Company? Airbus. They knew his name and wanted plans from him?

"What plans?" John asked.

The two gentlemen from EADS exchanged a look. Then the Frenchman smiled indulgently and asked with exaggerated politeness, "I presume you have the maps in your backpack, Mr Watson?"

"Yes, of course," John said. He wasn't sure whether there was a misunderstanding due to language. Was the man confusing plans with maps? But then he realised that couldn't be: people who introduced themselves as EADS didn't ask for hiking maps.

"Could you please produce them, Mr Watson?"

John decided to do as the men asked and picked up his backpack. He didn't get as far as opening it, however, as one of the bodyguards promptly plucked it out of his hands.

"Jean will take care of that for you," the Frenchman said when John protested.

His hand signal and tone of voice made it clear that John didn't have any other option. And so he watched as Jean took everything out of his backpack and spread it across the table: water bottle, rain gear, apple, energy bar, extra socks, tissues, fleece jumper, sun block, compass, pocket knife, three maps. 

Three? John couldn't remember having packed three maps. Especially not three identical ones. 

The men unfolded them carefully, examined them thoroughly. They discussed something in French. John understood enough to know they'd found what they were looking for. They took two of the maps and left the third on the table. One of the bodyguards spoke into a radio, ordering the helicopters back. Jean re-packed John's backpack. The Frenchman nodded to John, satisfied.

"Extend my deepest gratitude to Mr Holmes. We will reciprocate under the terms of the agreement as soon as we have checked over the plans."

The four men stood up without another word. Jean returned John's backpack to him. Even as the men left the restaurant, the sound of the rotors could be heard outside. Almost at the same moment, Celine entered the room with a bowl full of noodles au gratin and stared after the departing guests with a look of disappointment.

"They ordered lunch," she huffed.

***

John took the descent carefully. Step by step, one foot in front of the other. It had started to rain. John put on the rain gear and went on. The rocks were slick from the wetness, the ladders slippery. Clouds crept out from the ice-covered peaks, slithered down the ravine, cold, damp, surreal. Veiled the rocks, the creek, the chasm, took possession of the trail, covered it with unfriendly grey. John took note of it with unease, but only at the edges of his consciousness. 

He walked along absentmindedly. He was confused and paralysed with fear for Sherlock. Where was he? What had happened? All he knew was that he needed to make it down safely. He needed to get to the valley. One step at a time. John forced himself to go slowly, to take the steep stairs with care. He was all alone. He had no mobile connection. The only person who knew where he was, was Celine. But she would be more worried about the group coming down from the Wetterhorn than about him.

John tried to reach Sherlock again. But he still didn't have any reception on his smart phone. Not even once he'd passed the Urbach saddle. That made John suspicious. He knew he'd had reception at the fork leading up to the Engelhorn lodge the first time, when he'd gone up there last week. Why was it gone now? Was someone preventing him from contacting Sherlock? Or Mycroft? Or anyone at all? Because he couldn't contact anyone right now. He was all alone. Isolated. He was completely on his own in this fog-dense, wet, slippery, rain-drenched desert. It was cold and damp. No one else around.

A crash and rumble made John look up. He stopped where he was and listened to the fog. To the left of him, a piece of the Rosenlaui glacier had broken off, chunks of ice tumbled down the smooth-scoured surface of the lower moraine. No danger. He wasn't in the path of the glacier. He was up at the height of the glacial tongue. It was almost over. Almost. Just down the Rosenlaui.

Now that John had stopped, he noticed that his legs were shaky and painful. His ears were swollen shut. The difference in elevation. He needed fluids. He forced himself to take a break, sit down, eat the energy bar, have a drink. Celine had given him tea to take along, isotonic, lightly sweetened. He drank it. A large amount. He was tired and drained from the unaccustomed hike. And from the mental stress. It took all the strength he had to remain calm, not to panic. To keep a lid on the tumult inside him. Not to constantly think of Sherlock. Not to speculate about what had happened, just to concentrate on the trail.

Were those footsteps? John listened. The roar of the Weissenbach creek. The rain. That was all. His gun was in his jacket, ready to grab. Good.

 

_Author's note: SAC = Schweizer Alpen-Club (a hiking and mountain climbing club); EADS = European Aeronautic Defence and Space Company (Airbus)_


	7. Dangerous Games

It was almost midnight and Sherlock still wasn't back. John had showered and changed. He lay fully dressed on the hotel bed. There was no way he could sleep. He had mobile reception again but Sherlock wasn't reacting to calls or texts. He couldn't reach Mycroft either. John had tried for hours to contact one of them. He'd asked at the hotel reception desk, but the man there hadn't seen Sherlock and didn't know anything. John had looked for clues in the room but hadn't found anything there either. 

He was unsettled. It wasn't unusual at all for Sherlock to be out until late at night. But it was different if he really was meeting Moriarty. John wondered where the meeting might have taken place but there was an infinite number of possibilities, and he didn't know the area well enough. The only place he could cross off the list was the Dossen lodge. And he wasn't even sure about that, since he hadn't spent more than three hours there.

John started when his mobile rang. He grabbed for it frantically. Sherlock? No. Mycroft. That was something at least.

"You've been trying to reach me," Mycroft said. "What is it?"

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked.

"I'm not his nursemaid. Where are you?"

"At the hotel."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes? Mycroft was coming to him? That wasn't a good sign. John tried to reach Sherlock again, but the call didn't even go through to his phone. _The number you are trying to call is not available at the moment. Please try again later._

***

"Where's Sherlock?" John demanded, his voice hard.

Mycroft eyed John keenly. They stood in an empty room across the hall at the Baer. Mycroft had refused to talk in his brother's bugged room.

"My brother has assignments to take care of," Mycroft said coolly. "He's unavailable to you at the moment."

"I have reason to believe he's in danger," John said.

"Hardly," Mycroft said lightly. "He went to the Dossen lodge today. He'll be spending the night up there. Why are you so upset?"

"You knew that?" John said, incredulous. "You knew he wanted to go up to the lodge and you left him alone in such a dangerous situation?"

"The negotiations have been concluded," Mycroft answered calmly. "The only thing left is to hand over the plans. Completely harmless. Everything's being monitored by the secret service. The caretaker works for the NDB. There's nowhere safer."

John sank down with his back to the wall, nonplussed. Nowhere safer. Sherlock had lied to him and sent him to the Dossen lodge in the most sneaky, underhanded way possible. In order to keep him safe and distract him. With a secret mission.

"What plans?" John asked hoarsely.

"That information is none of your concern, John."

"Oh yes it is," John said. "It most certainly is! I was at the Dossen lodge today, and I handed over the plans to four men from EADS. So where is Sherlock?"

Mycroft was unable to hide his surprise. 

"YOU were there?" he exclaimed.

"What plans are they?" John demanded. As Mycroft didn't respond, he added, "I'd be happy to ask EADS directly or get in contact with Celine."

Mycroft inhaled sharply. Then he said grudgingly, "A meeting of European arms dealers took place in Ballenberg yesterday. Switzerland and Great Britain have decided to build jet drones together - without involving the rest of Europe. British Aerospace wants to use the deal to prevent a fusion with EADS. The Swiss Pilatus Aircraft Company have invented a functionally silent bi-jet propulsion system. I was there with the representative from British Aerospace to view the prototype. In order to distract EADS, we provided them with plans at the Dossen lodge."

"Who is 'we'?" John asked.

"The Swiss and British secret services."

"Why?" John asked. "Why are you turning plans over to the competition?"

Mycroft twisted his face into a smug grin. "Why not?" he said.

John shook his head. Something wasn't right. Something was off. A functionally silent bi-jet propulsion system for drones? John had seen enough drones during the war. You located them by radar and sent an anti-aircraft missile after them. That was it. Most drones were propeller-driven, as jet engines emitted hot gases that could be targeted by missiles with infrared heat-seekers. Sound emissions were the least of the problems with drones.

"Drones only have ONE weakness," John said. "And that's radar."

Mycroft gave him a long look. Then he nodded approvingly. "You're a soldier. I'd forgot that, John."

That smug tone. John felt anger and fury welling up in him. These damned Holmeses! He was scared to death for Sherlock and Mycroft kept feeding him one lie after another. Everyone was lying to him. Sherlock too. John was livid. 

He took a stand directly in front of Mycroft and said, "Sherlock has disappeared. He wanted to meet with Moriarty, and we're wasting time here with fairy tales. I demand to know the truth, Mycroft. Right now!"

The colour drained from Mycroft's face. "Moriarty?" he whispered in shock.

"The truth," John ordered harshly, not responding to Mycroft.

"Pilatus has developed a new stealth technology based on active crystalline surfaces," Mycroft said, dropping all pretense. "Any signature is blurred, it's virtually invisible to passive radar. Of course we are very interested in this 'cloak of invisibility' technology. The official reason for the visit to Pilatus was the silent propulsion system, which should be of interest to civilian aviation. For EADS as well. That wasn't the real reason we were there, however, so we had to distract EADS."

John nodded. Now that made sense. "Sherlock's assignment was the distraction," he stated.

"That's right."

"But he sent me, he wasn't there himself," John said.

John caught Mycroft's eye. And for the first time, the very first time since they'd known each other, John saw unadulterated worry in the flinty blue eyes.

"Where is Sherlock?" John asked, his voice low.

"I don't know, John," Mycroft admitted. 

"You know Moriarty?"

"He's a business partner of mine."

"He's WHAT?" John was aghast.

"You understand nothing of power, John. Moriarty is both brilliant and powerful. It's better to cooperate with people like that and keep them in check that way than to pick a quarrel with them the way my stupid little brother does." Mycroft was clearly angry.

"The mobile antenna on the Rosenlaui was dead," John said, ignoring Mycroft's upset. "It might not have been because of me. What else is in the range of that antenna?"

"Zwirgi covers the upper Reichenbach valley," Mycroft said. "The Untere Allmend covers the lower valley. It must have been one of those two."

"Or both," John said.

They shared a look. 

"The Reichenbach Falls," Mycroft said.

"Right." John started to leave.

"Wait!" Mycroft held him back. "Where are you going?"

"To find Sherlock."

"Be reasonable, John. It's midnight. It's raining. The creek drains the entire massif and carries huge quantities of water. The gorge is dangerous. You can't go there now. We'll do it in the morning. As soon as it gets light."

John tore himself away. "Are you coming with me or not?" he demanded harshly.

Mycroft slowly shook his head. "There's nothing you can do there now, John," he said in a smooth tone. "Sometimes it's better to think with the head rather than the heart."

John searched the blue eyes. "YOU'RE the one who recommended the book to me," he said, his voice icy.

John left and went back to his room, put on the warm fleece pullover, pulled on the rain gear, still wet, the hiking shoes. He took his gun and set out.

Rain was pouring from the sky. The night was filled with the high-toned hissing of the falling drops. In the background the thunder of the Reichenbach. John walked quickly through the water. Rain slapped his face, cooling it. Cooling the pain in his chest, the fear. The cold night air clarified his thoughts. Before he even reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls, he knew Mycroft was right. It would be light in a little less than six hours. They could search more effectively then. There was nothing he could do now other than endanger himself. He was exhausted from the hike to the Dossen lodge. The best thing he could do was sleep and eat and make sure he was fit in the morning. 

John stopped where he was. Closed his eyes. Rain pounded down on him, enveloping him. He tried to sense Sherlock, to find him with the eyes of his heart. But his heart was murky and sore. He needed to endure the pain and the fear. There was no reasonable alternative. Nothing he could change now. John turned around and went back to the Baer.

***

There were signs of a struggle. The cantonal police had recovered a shoe from a rock outcropping at the top of the falls that was accessible by foot. It wasn't Sherlock's. On the other hand, the bloody fingerprints on the rocks were unmistakably identified as belonging to the younger Holmes. Just like the torn scrap of cloth from Sherlock's shirt, smeared with blood. Sherlock's blood.

The specialists from the police searched up and down the Reichenbach. It was carrying an unusually large amount of water. The rain made the task even harder. They searched all day. Strapped into protective suits, they abseiled down the cliff face into the rushing waters, examined rock projections and littoral zones. The men didn't stop until the approaching darkness made it impossible to continue the search. Without results.

"We'll continue looking tomorrow," the commissioner in charge promised. "The rain is supposed to stop during the night, according to the forecast. That will make it easier, and sometimes as the water recedes it lays something bare. But don't get your hopes up too high. If we find anything at all, it's usually a body. And even that's rare with this amount of water. The bodies get pushed under the stones and get stuck. The creek doesn't usually give them up again."

Mycroft nodded. He was ashen.

John went down with the men from the police through the gloaming forest. He felt numb. The men walked silently, illuminating the steep path at their feet before them with torches. They took John and Mycroft as far as the off-road vehicles they'd driven over the narrow, sloping trails, getting as close as possible to the falls. They accompanied Mycroft to his car, which he'd left at the lower station of the funicular. Mycroft had lodgings in Grindelwald and left without another word, indicating to John with a dismissive gesture that he wanted to be alone.

The hotel room was empty. It was emptier than John would ever have thought possible. Hopelessly empty and foreign. John got out of his wet clothes and let himself collapse on the bed. Everything hurt. His body. Every muscle. Every movement. Every thought. Every breath. It also hurt to lie still, not to move, not to think, not to feel. Everything hurt. Every heartbeat. 

Sherlock.

John didn't know what to think, what to feel. Inside him was chaos. A painful chaos that couldn't be healed. Rain outside the open window. It was coming down harder again. The Reichenbach Falls audible, percussive in its abundance. 

Sherlock.

Sherlock was out there in that watery hell somewhere. Injured. Cold. Maybe even dead. Maybe he'd been dead for a while already. More than twenty-four hours. Already gone, his body abandoned. He'd fought with Moriarty, that much was clear. And had fallen. Maybe. Moriarty too. Both: maybe. Fallen into that cold, raging maw. A moment of horror. Maybe smashed against a rock. Pressed beneath the stones by the thundering masses of water. A futile struggle. Panic at drowning. Water in the lungs, no air. A long, horrible fight against death. Last thoughts. Maybe of him, John. Maybe. Fractions of a second of memories of intimacy, tenderness, desire. The smell of skin. Warmth. Comfort. Maybe. 

Sherlock was dead. In all likelihood. It was better to quickly relinquish all hope and face the facts. To let go. Sherlock was dead. Maybe. Dead yet close by. So close. So unbearably close. Maybe closer in death than ever before. John's heart burned. He shivered, a shudder. Sherlock was... gone. The room empty. Forever. Forever. He needed to endure it. Endure. Learn. Endure. Cement hardened in John's chest. Heavy and jagged.


	8. Whispers in the Night

It had stopped raining sometime during the night. The morning sky was clearing. The moisture still clung to the mountains as a thick fog, hiding glacier, rock, and stream. The specialists from the cantonal police were searching the Reichenbach again for Sherlock and Moriarty.

The volume of water had gone down, the Reichenbach was slowly but surely returning to a calmer course. Here and there it laid free rocks and stones where raging waters had hurtled down to the valley the day before. Rubble was trapped between the rocks. Huge piles of stones, mixed up with wood. Entire trees. Uprooted. John was surprised at what the stream exposed. What power the wild water manifested, sweeping stones like that along with it and tossing them onto heaps, tearing out entire trees by the roots, breaking and crushing them, washing them up, wedged and trapped between stone and rock. Only to withdraw, faster than he'd expected, revealing the scale of the thunderous destruction, handing it over to the sun. 

Sherlock was there somewhere. Maybe buried beneath the rubble. Forever. John was only now realising what it meant to fall into that kind of water. How impossible it was to survive that kind of fall.

The commanding officer of the search party was the picture of calm.

"A male body was washed ashore in the Aare upstream from Hirssi," he said after speaking over his radio for a while. "We'd appreciate it if you could identify it. I can take you."

John and Mycroft exchanged a look. They were both prepared to do it. Whatever came now, it was better than the uncertainty.

"You're a doctor, aren't you?" The officer turned to John. "It might be better if you could do it. It's not a very pretty sight, you must realise. The body's been damaged quite badly, which suggests it comes from the Reichenbach."

John nodded. Swallowed. "I can do it," he said.

Mycroft looked at him. He was pale. "Are you sure, John?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," John said firmly.

"I'll come along."

"Fine. Four eyes are certainly better than two, two statements better than one," John said. It sounded cool and professional. The armour in his chest was heavy but impenetrable. Good.

***

The trip with the all-terrain vehicle took about a quarter of an hour. Down to Meiringen, along the Aare toward Brienz. At some point they took a right across a narrow bridge, then on the other side of the river up again, a gravel road parallel to the train tracks. The commander eventually parked next to two police cars and an ambulance, let John and Mycroft get out. The police divers were there cleaning their equipment. The commander stepped over the single track of the local Zentralbahn railway and down to the Aare. 

A red and white ribbon marked off the area where they'd found the body. A body bag. The emergency physician who'd certified the death was on the phone. He ended the call when he saw the three men approaching.

"Who's the doctor?" he asked. 

John gave a weak sign. He felt sick. His body hurt. His legs shaky. 

"Part of the face is still recognisable," the doctor said. "It's not a very pleasant sight, though."

John nodded calmly, signalled that he was ready. The emergency physician crouched down next to the body bag. John felt Mycroft beside him and reached for his arm. A brief illusion that it was Sherlock standing next to him, who had stood next to him, a trusted source of security, aid, comfort at so many crime scenes. The doctor pulled down the zipper on the body bag. 

John stared at the mess of blood, brain, bone splinters, and hair for a few seconds. His hand had clawed into Mycroft's sleeve. He gagged. Closed his eyes. Nodded. Let go of Mycroft. In distress.

It was Moriarty.

***

The short memorial service for the two unfortunate Brits was simple. The people here didn't have a lot to say when it came to death. They commiserated silently. The mountains claimed lives regularly around here. The church, St Michael's, was full. If the event hadn't been marred by such oppressive grief for John, he would probably have appreciated the foundation stones from the ninth century, the twelfth-century Lazarist tower, the fantastic acoustics of the homely space. 

But John was overwhelmed by heartache. Mute. Deaf. Blind. He sat off to the side. He couldn't bear Mycroft's presence, nor anyone else's. He wanted to be alone. Alone in the midst of all these people praying for Sherlock. And for Moriarty.

The priest took inspiration from the Wisdom of Solomon in his eulogy: _"But the just man, though he dies early, shall be at rest. For the age that is honourable comes not with the passing of time, nor can it be measured in terms of years. Rather, understanding is the hoary crown for men. Having become perfect in a short while, he reached the fullness of a long career. A short life, when purposeful and loving, easily measures up against a long one. For the Lord is pleased in him who loves."_

John would have liked to cry when he heard the passage, because they were the perfect words for Sherlock. But he couldn't cry. His heart was frozen with pain.

_Purposeful and loving_. He should have told him. He should have told Sherlock that that was what he saw in him: purpose and love. In every action. In every gesture. In every word. Even in that smug attitude of refusing to share information, that unbearable Holmesian conceit. He should have told him that he loved him. Loved him more than he'd ever loved before. But it was too late.

John surrendered himself to the final, wordless prayer; the priest left it open, to the room, to time, stillness, a point of entry. A silent memorial in the face of the power of nature, of fate. Mute meditation. John immersed himself deeply in the feeling of his love, sent it out, a focused beam, to the place where Sherlock might be, where it might reach him. Him or an angel who could relay the message.

The church choir sang: _I stand before thee empty-handed, Lord. Thy paths are foreign even as thy name..._

The benediction. Organ postlude. The people leaving the church. John stayed in his seat. He couldn't. He couldn't get up. Couldn't walk out with the others. The living. He couldn't go out and face the day. He couldn't leave the chapel. He was with Sherlock. Close. So close. _Search me, God_ , John thought, directing the words into the painful emptiness deep inside him. _Test me. My thoughts and feelings are open to you. I want you to look. Now! I love this man, do you see? Test it! Look down deep. I'm not hiding anything. Search me and decide. Decide whether this love is worthy... and bless it._ John was shaking. _Bless him._ He couldn't recall ever having truly prayed before. He buried his face in his hands and closed his eyes. He breathed in the dusky warmth of his hands, and calm slowly spread through him. A heavy, painful calm.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

John looked up. It was the priest.

"I'm grieving for my friend and partner," John answered directly, a bitter undertone in his voice. "If there's anything on the other side that promises light and peace, I want him to be able to go there. Even if he shared a bed with me. You can pray for that for him."

John stood up without waiting for a reply and left the church. The sun was shining outside. The precipitation of the past few days had fallen as snow up above 3000 metres. The peaks gleamed white against the backdrop of the dark blue sky. The cantonal police had closed the case. The search for Sherlock was over.

***

John woke up and jolted upright; something was covering his mouth. It was a good thing: if the wiry hand hadn't been pressed over his mouth in a steely grip - the other hand providing counterpressure on the back of his neck - he would have screamed out. As it was, there was only a muffled gurgle. Then Sherlock slowly let go, laying his index finger across John's mouth, letting it rest there for a while. Until John had recovered from the shock and understood the message. Then John reached for the hand on his lips, for the face of the man who was sitting on the bed next to him in the dark of night, and they hugged, hard and fierce.

"I'm going to disappear," Sherlock whispered into John's ear, his breath hot and fast, every sound an endearment. "Officially, I'm dead. You need to mourn for me, do you hear?"

Lips brushed John's skin. John reached numbly into Sherlock's hair. Felt for his friend's ear with his mouth.

"Why?" he whispered, the smell and the warmth and the proximity of the familiar body almost driving him mad.

Sherlock's lips touched his. Quivering breath.

"Later. I need to leave."

"Why disappear?" John asked, and in the trance of their mutual arousal he touched the edge of Sherlock's ear with the tip of his tongue, traced the warm cartilage, slipped inside, under the curled edge as he probed. Salty skin. Sherlock gasped. But he stopped the caress with tremulous fingers, put his mouth to John's ear again.

"I need to go," he whispered. "But we'll see each other again. More than once. Soon. Everything you need to know is here."

John felt a piece of paper in his hand, Sherlock's bony fingers pressing it into his, warm and restless. Seeking. Trembling. Barely under control. John took the paper and set it aside. Sherlock's wavering breath still in his ear, lips at his earlobe, a tender bite, a surge of heat. John ran his hand over Sherlock's back to the nape of his neck, sought his mouth with his lips.

"You're hurt," John whispered when he brushed the bandage on Sherlock's upper arm.

"A scratch. I need to go, John."

Sherlock held John's hands still, tried to stop the caresses. But it was too late. They both knew it. They couldn't go back. Didn't want to. They lay in each other's arms, their cheeks pressed together, breathing hotly.

"Who else knows you're alive?" John asked, his words a low susurration in Sherlock's ear.

"No one."

"Mycroft?"

"No one."

They clung to each other. Curled into each other, seeking each other. Hot and hard. John was shaken by the answer. Sherlock was dead. Cold. Gone. For everyone. Except for him. He held the haggard figure in his arms, burning. Willing. Filled with adoration and insistence.

Then they gave in, relinquished all control and made love. Followed the desire of their bodies, unquestioning and straightforward. With their arms still around each other, they removed their clothing, fevered, drew their naked bodies together, their hard groins pressed against each other. The object of their longing. Closeness, no holds barred. Communion on the edge of control. They ground against each other in their delirium, intimate, greedy. Each letting the other pull them to the precipice and beyond, reckless, drunk on each other. A union beyond anything that could be named. John covered Sherlock's mouth with his hand when his friend followed him in an unbridled climax. 

They stayed like that for several minutes, wrapped up in each other, enjoyed the closeness, the intimacy. Then Sherlock stirred.

"I'm going to take a shower," he whispered in John's ear. "And I need some money and your bank card." He paused one more moment, then decisively broke the embrace and got up. John sat there, still dazed by everything that had happened, and was happening. 

Purposeful and loving, he thought for a moment and smiled wanly. Maybe it was easier to love the glorified memory of a dead man than this Sherlock who was always on the go and not particularly polite.

John absently pulled open the drawer of the nightstand, reached inside and felt around in the dark for his wallet, took out a couple of notes and his bank card and put them on top. He tugged a handful of tissues out of the box on the nightstand, cleaned up the semen on his stomach, preoccupied. Then he stretched out on the bed and tried to breathe slow and easy, to compose himself. The sound of the shower running. He wasn't dreaming. Sherlock was here. He was alive. But he would leave, be gone again. Invisible. That made John realise their life was going to change. Life on Baker Street. His life. Without Sherlock.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was showered and dressed in new clothes, his arm freshly bandaged. He took the money and the bank card from John's hand and tucked them away. He hugged his friend in parting.

"Don't forget to mourn for me," Sherlock whispered in his ear.

Then he climbed out the window into the night.

John stood there for a long time, staring at the open window. When he began to shiver, he got back into bed. He thought about turning on the light to read the paper Sherlock had given him, but he didn't want to disrupt the night; the protective darkness. Didn't want to interfere with the passage of time, destroy the dream. It was three in the morning. Dawn would come soon enough.

***

When John woke up, it was light outside. The sun hadn't reached the valley floor yet, only illuminating the highest peaks. The roar of the Reichenbach Falls had become more muted, softer. John got up, picked up the dark flannel shirt from the floor, the rough men's trousers. They weren't Sherlock's clothes. They were certainly too big for him. Someone had used a sharp object to bore a misshapen hole in the old leather belt that was threaded through the waistband. The letter lay on the nightstand. There was no doubt about the night's events.

John took a shower and got dressed. He put the stranger's clothes in with his own laundry. Then he sat down on the bed and opened the envelope. It was glued shut. Four sheets of paper. Sherlock's sprawling handwriting.

_John,_

_I'm going to disappear for a while. I'll tell you why on Monday._  
_1\. I'm going to withdraw a large sum of money from your account with your bank card. Give me 2 days, then report the card as lost and have it blocked and replaced. You'll get the money back eventually._  
_2\. Buy me a cheap mobile phone in your name with a Swiss pre-paid card from Swisscom and put a few francs on it (I only need text messaging and calls, don't set up voice mail)._  
_3\. You're taking the train back to London next Wednesday. A flight is too risky. Adjust your plans accordingly._  
_4\. Open a new account in your name in London, and set up online banking (for you) and get a bank card (for me)._  
_5\. Start weekly psychotherapy sessions right away in London to deal with my death. Make yourself and others believe it. Get yourself really worked up over it. That will help you to maintain the grief. Think of me as a dream/shadow/phantom._  
_6\. Avoid any contact with Mycroft in the next few weeks._  
_7\. We'll meet on Monday at 3 pm on the Rottalp. Take the Axalp Lütschentälti side and use the material cableway. You'll be spending the night, come prepared._  
_8\. Bring the mobile phone and one of those nut tarts._  
_9\. You won't be able to reach me before then._  
_10\. Destroy this note as soon as you've read and memorised it._

_John. I owe you a thousand apologies for the pain I've caused you. I wasn't able to contact you until after the memorial service. You're a terrible actor and Mycroft too good an observer. He - and others - would have noticed if you hadn't truly grieved for me._

_Always remember: I am dead.  
Sherlock_

 

_Author's note: The priest's sermon is based loosely on the Wisdom of Solomon, 4:7-13 and John's prayer is based on Psalm 139:23.  
Translator's note: The hymn sung by the choir is not available in English. The English text reproduced here is a free translation of the German hymn, "Ich steh vor dir mit leeren Händen, Herr" original text in Dutch by Huub Oosterhuis, German by Lothar Zenetti. _


	9. On the Alp

The trail led through a shadowy mountain forest. The scent of wood and sap, earth and moss lay damp between the fir trees, even now in the early afternoon. John was deep in thought as he walked. He had the mobile phone and nut tart - a local specialty - Sherlock had requested in his backpack, along with bandages for Sherlock's injury. In addition to his own things, he'd packed along a couple of items of Sherlock's clothing from the hotel room. And the little book by Saint-Exupéry. 

He didn't know why he'd taken _The Little Prince_ along. Maybe for sentimental reasons. He'd also brought the strap. It was a narrow leather bracelet he'd plaited in Afghanistan, somewhere in a village under a tree following directions from one of the local women. She'd been working goat leather and he'd asked her what she was doing; she'd shown him. She'd laughed at his clumsy fingers. He'd taken to wearing the bracelet all the time, and not taken it off his wrist until he began a new life in London. With Sherlock.

John thought about the object he'd packed as a last-minute impulse. It scared him. It felt like a lead-in to saying good-bye.

John had spent the last few days in mourning. Continued his mourning. It hadn't been difficult. He was filled with grief. Even if it wasn't the same kind of desperation it had been before Sherlock's nocturnal return, the current of heaviness was still deep and painful. John wasn't under no illusions: Sherlock was leaving. Leaving him behind. John didn't need to pretend at his sorrow. He hadn't pretended with Mycroft. 

The elder Holmes had flown back to London, visiting him at the Baer before he left. They'd sat in the restaurant, in a dim corner all the way at the back, and drunk tea. The unbearable light of the sun outside.

"Will you be staying here?" Mycroft had asked.

John had nodded. Listless. Weakened by lack of sleep and bitterness. Sherlock's return hadn't brought any peace to his nights. Nor to his days. Quite the contrary.

"I'm leaving next week," he'd answered. "I still need some time... in this place."

"Take the train and be careful, John. We don't know yet what shadows Moriarty's death may cast."

John had nodded silently.

***

After a good hour's hike, John stood at the lower station of the material cableway. Sceptical. A pulley system with a steel cable. It was anchored to a rock in a very primitive manner. A pulley block with four rollers hung at an angle from the cable, along with a wooden crate approximately two metres long attached by a chain. The double cable ran up an almost vertical cliff face. At the top was a metal mast, more hinted at than really visible. It stood there balanced over the edge of the precipice, as if it were struggling against a powerful pull from below, legs akimbo.

John opened the weathered wooden box that hung crookedly on the rock next to the idler pulley. 'Press button for transport' it read. A grey electrical box with a green and a red button. Apparently the controls for the cableway. On/off. That was it. John hesitated. Was he really supposed to get into that wooden crate? Right. Did he have a choice? 

John put his backpack into the crate. It swayed at the slightest touch. Then he pushed the green button in the control box and quickly got in, sat in the rear end of the crate, facing toward the top, dragged his backpack over between his legs, and waited. After a couple of seconds, the entire contraption jerked and the crate started moving. Apparently the mechanism had started up. The cable advanced rapidly, purred through the idler pulley, carried the block with the wooden crate upward. 

John swallowed as the crate immediately gained altitude, floated obliviously over the cliff face on the low-sagging cables, rocking alarmingly on the four chains by which it hung. John stared up at the block of rollers from which the crate was suspended. It looked like it was firmly anchored to the running cable. After all, a material transport system would be able to bear more weight, had certainly carried heavier loads than a man with a backpack. The rollers would hold... John hoped. The chains and the brackets that attached them to the wooden crate too. Just don't look. Best not look too closely. Don't question anything. John closed his eyes.

He opened them again a short while later when an unpleasant buzzing sound neared. It came from the mast at the top of the cliff, which he was approaching at a good clip. The cable hummed as it ran through rollers and carriers, the mast vibrated. John got a good shaking through. After that it was calm again, a faint hum, alpine meadow under the crate, a plateau. 

Up ahead was another short, rocky incline. Two more masts, then the crate arrived at the top station and braked abruptly. Swung unpleasantly. The chains creaked in their fittings. A cargo transporter. John got out, grabbed his backpack and went over to the man who was waiting for him with a smile. Sherlock.

They walked together fifteen minutes more up to a mountain cabin hidden behind a rock outcropping, invisible from the cableway. The path was narrow and steep, they walked single file without talking. Sherlock took the lead, kept checking behind him. Smiling. He'd hugged John at the cableway station, enthusiastic, tight, affectionate. The smell of wood and smoke in the dark hair. Longing in the hands which tenatively touched John's face. Unselfconscious joy. A stab to John's doubting heart.

***

The cabin was small and rustic. Water came from the water trough in front of the house. A kitchen with a wood-burning stove, table and two benches, behind that the pantry and a tiny workshed that was only accessible from outside. At the back a steep set of stairs up to the upper level, a corridor on the side facing the mountain and two low rooms facing outward. Two single beds stood in the larger room, the smaller one was being used for storage. There was no electricity.

Sherlock had fired up the stove and made hot water, brewed tea in an old, dented iron pot. Herbal tea. They sat at the table in the kitchen, drank out of grubby mugs. John unpacked his backpack. Mobile phone, nut pie.

"The pie is for Celine," Sherlock said.

"Celine from the NDB?" John asked in surprise.

"Oh, you know she's with the NDB?"

"Mycroft."

"I needed to let her in on it. I can't work alone, John. I need the support of the NDB."

"So there are others who know you're alive," John said. Suspicion arose in him.

"Not others," Sherlock corrected him. "Only you and Celine. She's coming early tomorrow to bring me a new passport, a new identity. I won't be Sherlock Holmes anymore."

"You lied to me," John said, hurt. "Why? You said I was the only one who knew but the pie was already on the list."

A brief flash in Shelock's pale eyes. "John," he said softly. He felt for John's hands, but John pulled away from him. Sherlock lowered his eyes, troubled. It took a moment before he looked up again. 

"I didn't lie to you, John," Sherlock said in an effort to placate him. "I had planned to contact Celine but I hadn't done it yet. I didn't know whether it would work out."

They looked each other in the eye. 

"I'm flying to Tibet the day after tomorrow, for six months," Sherlock said bluntly. 

Dismay rolled over John like a heavy road roller. He felt the blood drain from his head, closed his eyes, fought against the dizziness, clung to the table, struggled for balance. Sherlock watched his friend closely.

"I need to disappear for a while, let the dust settle, John. Moran needs to feel secure. That's the only way to get to him."

John tried to breathe, to draw air into his lungs. Let it out again. To recover, loosen up. An iron fist had closed around his heart, threatened to crush it. To suffocate him.

"Sherlock..." he began, but had to stop, unable to articulate the words.

"There's no other way, John," Sherlock said. It was probably supposed to sound objective, but his timorous, barely articulated voice belied any attempt at neutrality. 

John opened his eyes but didn't look up. Kept them fixed on his hands folded in front of him on the rough tabletop. "Sherlock," he said quietly. "We need time for each other."

"We'll see each other."

"How, Sherlock? Where?"

"I'll organise it."

"Organise it? In Tibet? How do you think that's supposed to work?"

"There's always a way, John."

John took a deep breath. His heart hurt. Hurt so unfathomably much. He couldn't think any longer. Disappointment and grief swirled around inside him. Whatever Sherlock might imagine: it wasn't going to work. Tibet. Impossible to travel there without attracting attention. It was too dangerous for both of them. It made them discoverable. And it wasn't enough.

"It's not enough for us to see each other once in a while, Sherlock," he said softly. "We've begun a romantic relationship. You do realise that?"

Sherlock was silent for a long time. A very long time. Finally, he said, "What should I do?"

He asked so hesitantly, so incredibly hesitant, that John's heart clenched and then opened wide. Expanded and softened.

"Reveal the trick, Sherlock. Come back to Baker Street with me," he asked.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He rested his elbows on the table, buried his face in his hands. He appeared to be thinking. John waited.

"Fate has given me this unique opportunity to destroy Moriarty's entire network," he said then. "It's the biggest and most important case we've ever had, John. The NDB is offering their support. It's perfect." He looked at John. "We should think of it as a case," he said. 

"We?" John asked bitterly.

"It will be over eventually and I'll come back to you on Baker Street."

"When?" John asked.

"I don't know. When it's all done."

"In two years?"

"I don't know, John."

"I can't do it, Sherlock," John said tiredly. "I just lost you to death and it was horrible. But at least it left me with the illusion of love. Knowing that you're alive and you've made me your second priority breaks my heart."

Sherlock stayed silent, abashed. 

"Let's end this relationship, Sherlock," John went on, his voice nothing more than a miserable whisper.

"John! No! Why?"

"Too much pain. Too little happiness."

"No! No. John!"

"We break up. You leave. I'll consider you dead and mourn for you. You're free for your mission. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"No, that's not what I want. You know that perfectly well."

"What do you want then?"

Sherlock put his head in his hands again and didn't answer for a long time. His breaths became laboured. He was struggling. Then he said, "I leave. You continue living in our flat. We see each other regularly. We keep the relationship going. We stay in contact. We solve the case. Then I come back to you."

"That won't work," John said. "We may see each other now and again, for a couple of days somewhere in the world. We may sleep together. But we won't have a life together anymore. We won't share anything. We'll be lonely, we'll lose that closeness. You'll die somewhere out there and I won't even know it."

"Why are you being so pessimistic?"

John looked into the pale eyes. "Friendship is one thing, Sherlock. I'm not talking about friendship. That will keep. But what we've started between us is different. I want to let it happen, you know. I want to have it with you."

"I want that too, John," Sherlock said. "But let me finish this thing first. It's important to me."

"Then decide what's more important."

"No, John! No. Please, not this either-or! Don't make me choose! I'm begging you. Let us find a solution. Please! Please!"

John closed his eyes. It was unfair, he knew that himself. "Breaking up IS a solution," he said.

Sherlock shook his head. Then he got up and simply walked out, left the cabin and disappeared. John stayed sitting there, staring blankly at nothing. His heart was about to break. He could feel it. There was a limit. The burning pain, almost unbearable, threatening to tip into anger and disappointment, instead spilled over into a sudden coolness, a decision, a no. A liberating move. To open his hand. Simply open the hand that held the strings which fate was pulling on. Let go. Put an end to the cutting, burning, tug-of-war. Let the wounds heal. Once the limit was passed, there would be no turning back. Once that hand was open, the strings could no longer be reclaimed. John felt that moment approaching. He knew he would pay for it in tears and tribulation, but also that it would allow a new start afterwards. A life without Sherlock.

John was overcome by a sense of panic. That wasn't what he wanted. Didn't want to let go. Not yet. He wanted to endure the pain a little longer, to leave just one more option open for himself and Sherlock. He'd suspected it, suspected that it would be hard. Very hard. Life with Sherlock was hard anyway. An intimate relationship even harder. He'd suspected it and had still been willing to enter into it. Into both. For as hard as it was, it was also an adventure. It was both. But he hadn't expected it to be so painful. So incredibly painful.

Sherlock had left. Simply walked away. He couldn't do that. It was too much. Much too much heartache. Too much suffering. He couldn't take it much longer. John got up, stepped just outside the door. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock!" he shouted with everything he had in him, all of his misery.

He shouted it out to the surroundings, the mountain, the valley, the solitude. Then he sat down, drained. Let himself collapse onto the bench in front of the house. Defeated. Either Sherlock came back to him or it was too late. A broken heart can't heal any more. An open hand doesn't grasp for threads. So easy, it was so easy sometimes. John closed his eyes, tried not to let that searing pain in his chest tip over, not to let it slip past that limit. He needed to endure it. He forced himself to remain calm. Forced himself to let the despair out of the narrow prison of his chest, out into the rest of his body, to let his body help bear it. Heavy fatigue. Exhaustion. Numbness quickly spread through him. Resignation.

Footsteps. Breathing. Sherlock was coming back. Coming back after all. Sherlock. John didn't know whether it was a wave of relief or exhaustion that passed over him. Just on the periphery. No strong emotion. Maybe he was simply too tired and hurt to be happy. He had a foreboding of confrontation and hard work coming up. Much more than peace. And yet it was good. It was good that Sherlock had come back. A sign that it was important to him. That John was important to him.

John felt movement beside him. Cool hands reached for his, folded cautiously around them. Sherlock rested his face on top. Dampness. Hot moisture seeped in between John's fingers. It took him a moment to understand. Sherlock was crying.

John was startled. It was unexpected. So unexpected. He opened his eyes. Sherlock knelt beside him, his head in John's lap. He wasn't sobbing; he was still. The tears simply leaked out of him. The desperate grip of the hard, shaking hands made clear the scope of his misery. John sat there frozen in his numbness and torpor. But then he carefully extracted his right hand from Sherlock's grasp and ran his fingers through the dark curls, left them there. Silent.

_"Now you are going to cry."  
"Yes, that is so," said the fox.  
"Then it has done you no good at all!"  
"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields."_

***

Later, they walked up to the alpine meadow behind the cabin. Sherlock wanted to show John the view from the outcropping. They walked at a sedate pace, amidst juniper and saxifrage. Yellow gentian. Thyme. Monkshood. Hawksbeard. Wild orchid. The herd of goats on the neighbouring alp had settled in on a higher plateau and grazed the area above the cabin. The tinkling of their bells filled the air. 

Sherlock sat down on a rock, and John found a seat too. They looked out over Lake Brienz, a turquoise green surface glowing far below. To the west was Lake Thun. In between them Interlaken. Directly opposite the Rothorn. Clouds were coming up in the west. The weather could turn that night. Evening thermals blew down the mountain to the valley, rippling through the grass and flowers. 

Neither of them spoke. They still had a few hours. A scant few hours to spend together. John turned his head, looked into the clearwater blue eyes of his friend. They were open wide and filled with love. The evening wind blew Sherlock's hair into his face.

"Let's set each other free," John said at some point that evening. "Your mission will be dangerous. You should concentrate on it. There's no point in you expending time and energy on us meeting. It would be a risk every time. And it would be painful. For both of us. Let's be reasonable, Sherlock. You'll be dead to me. I'll mourn for you. When you come back, we'll start again."

"Will you still love me then?"

"I don't know."

It was a bad night. They both lay awake. Two separate beds, one against one wall, the other against the other wall of the room. The splashing of the water in the trough in front of the house. The tinkling of the goats' bells in the distance. Other than that it was still. There was no lonelier spot than that tiny room in the mountain cabin, high up in the alps. 

John got up eventually. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet. He sat down on Sherlock's bed. A hand felt for his. He gripped it fiercely. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock slid over and made room, lifted his blanket. John slipped into the warmth beside his friend. They hugged each other, tight and desperate. They lay pressed together, numb with the pain. Sherlock had his face pressed into John's neck. He was crying.

 

_Translator's Note: I have no idea about the technical details of the type of cargo transport system described in this chapter, although I have seen them in action several times and even ridden in one once. I tried to get the terms correct using this brochure from Wyssen, a Swiss company that manufactures modern cableways and is located, entirely by coincidence, in Reichenbach: http://www.wyssen.com/uploads/media/Seilbahnenmontage_Ausruestung_2013_EN.pdf  
It has several helpful illustrations in case you still can't picture what is going on. John rides in something like what you see on the bottom of page 10-11 of the brochure._


	10. No Choice

John woke up to the sound of kitchen noises and the smell of a wood fire. He was lying in the narrow bed in the mountain cabin, Sherlock with his arms wrapped around him from behind and holding him tight. The breath on the nape of his neck was soft and warm. Sherlock was asleep. John stretched cautiously. He felt stiff and battered, his entire body sore. He hadn't been able to relax or really sleep. And what little he had slept was much too short. He hadn't dozed off until close to dawn, after Sherlock had drifted off, exhausted.

Someone was clattering around downstairs in the kitchen. Celine. She was singing softly to herself the way she had at the Dossen lodge. It was already light outside. John got up carefully, trying not to wake Sherlock. But his friend jolted awake, alarmed at the slightest movement. 

Sherlock looked terrible. Pale. Red, swollen eyes; tangled, matted hair. John stayed sitting on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, ran his hand down Sherlock's arm, squeezed it gently. Then he got up. Drowsy. He had the feeling that he'd aged by years.

Celine had lit the stove. She was making coffee. John and Sherlock washed outside at the water trough. Sherlock lowered his head into the icy water, washed his hair, tried to rinse the soap out with the dipper at the side of the trough, shivering with cold and physical weakness. John watched him for a bit, then went inside to the kitchen, got a bucket full of hot water. He took the dipper out of Sherlock's hand, mixed hot water with cold, and poured it over Sherlock's head while he scrubbed the soap out of his hair with both hands. Warm water. Cool fingertips brushed John's hand in thanks. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. A wounded, unsteady look. Neither of them spoke a word.

"What happened to the two of you?" Celine asked when they came to the breakfast table a little while later. She had set the coffee on the table in front of the cabin, along with bread, cheese, and apples. 

John sat down without responding. Sherlock remained standing as he poured himself some coffee.

"Sit down," Celine said, friendly.

Now, up close, she looked older than John had recalled. She cut the bread, focused and calm. Her hands were those of a mature woman. Her face was relaxed, the skin tanned and dry from the mountain air, creases around the eyes. Several grey strands in her short, dark hair.

Sherlock hesitated before joining them at the table. He brought his coffee cup to his mouth with both hands and took a sip. Although he was making an effort, it was clearly visible how unsteady his motions were. Celine watched him closely.

"I'd like to hear from you what happened," she said.

"Private," Sherlock replied evasively.

Celine gave him a once-over. "I require that my agents' private lives be settled and stable. The job requires complete focus."

"I'm in top condition," Sherlock said contrarily.

Celine smiled. She chewed on a piece of bread with cheese, drank some coffee. She was as cool as a cucumber. 

"I had a bad night," Sherlock explained. "That's all."

"I've been recruiting people for the NDB for years," Celine said. "I rely on my own judgment in these things. Well? What's going on?" She looked at Sherlock, but as it didn't appear that he was about to say anything, she turned to John. "John?"

John told about their decision to break up. Celine wanted to know the reasons, to hear the story. John explained. Sherlock sat beside them, downcast, his eyes closed. Celine observed both of them. She remained matter-of-fact as she listened, drank coffee, unhurriedly peeled an apple, cut it into pieces, ate them, asked a question here and there. Nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me there was a problem here?" she asked Sherlock once John was done.

Sherlock was nonplussed. "I didn't know there was," he said. He said he'd taken for granted that John would agree with everything. Like he always did. John was the practical one, but Sherlock was the thinker and planner. Celine was thoughtful.

"I'm afraid this isn't a normal situation," she said soberly. And after she'd observed him closely, she added, "This is all new for you."

It wasn't clear whether it was a question or a statement, but Sherlock nodded.

"Love and sexuality are overwhelming experiences," she said gently. "They can unbalance you, Sherlock. I can't use you like this." After a few moments, she added, "Love is a basic function of life. I can't work with people who can't handle it. It's too dangerous."

Silence fell over the wooden table in front of the alpine cabin. The sun shone on the meadows higher up on the other side of the valley. The constant gurling of the water trough, the bells of the goat herd. Other than that it was silent.

Then John said quietly, "We've lived together for two years. It's also a question of friendship."

"The way I see it, this is a romance," Celine corrected him. "Or am I wrong?"

She examined John's face closely, searching. John swallowed. He didn't answer.

"You're sleeping together. Not because you're friends, trying it out for the fun of it, out of curiosity. But because it's a necessity. It's necessary to your souls. You're deeply involved with each other. You can't just rewind that to friendship, John."

"What business is it of yours?" John asked. He didn't pose the question aggressively. He was too bowled over by Celine's straightforward words for that. He wanted to know. That was all. 

Celine took her time composing her answer. She looked John in the eye. Calm.

"I want Sherlock to be settled," she then said earnestly. "He needs emotional stability if he's to act out there. He'll find that with you. Look at him."

John didn't react. He looked at Celine. Wasn't sure what to make of her. Of her words. She was serious. Her dark eyes honest and clear.

"Look at him," she repeated softly.

She was so serious, so emphatic, that John turned his head and did as she bid. Sherlock had leaned back against the wooden wall of the cabin, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. He was ashen and haggard, looked exhausted and fragile. His hair was still damp and lay flat on his head, uncombed. His breaths were shallow, quick and irregular. John was shocked. He couldn't recall ever having seen Sherlock like this. So... decimated. John's heart clenched painfully.

"Why do you want to leave him?" Celine asked.

John looked at Sherlock with concern. He didn't know what to say. He didn't want to leave Sherlock. Sherlock was going away and leaving him. It hurt and he couldn't deal with the pain. It was too much. He didn't see any other solution.

Celine took a deep, thoughtful breath. She placed one hand on John's bicep, just for a moment. John flinched at the touch, at the firmness and strength of the slender female hand.

"We'll work on it," she said. She got up, cleared away the bread and cheese, and took them into the cabin.

John was a mess. He leaned back next to Sherlock, sank back against the rough wooden wall, tried to relax and closed his eyes too. The stillness. Just the water trough. The tinkling of the goats. Cool morning air. The aroma of the herbs in the meadow, of water and rock and ice. The warm wooden wall of the cabin. The fire in the kitchen. Gentle crackling. A faint whiff of ashes and home. The scent of coffee still hovering in the air.

"I love you," Sherlock said plainly. 

He said it without opening his eyes, without moving at all. He sat there motionless, leaning against the wall. John was surprised, didn't know what to do with that. He had been prepared for anything but those words coming out of the mouth of this man. Not now. He felt keenly his inability to respond. He was too upset, too wounded, too directionless. He simply sat there, leaning against the wall next to Sherlock, his eyes closed.

"She's right," Sherlock continued after a while. "It's overwhelming and unsettling and I can't handle it."

John kept his eyes closed. Listened. Let those sober, weighty words seep into him. They touched him profoundly. His heart was burning.

"It's the first time I've felt this way," Sherlock added quietly. 

John shivered. The momentousness of what Sherlock was saying shook him to the core.

***

"John?"

Celine came out of the cabin, joined the two men at the wooden table again, set out a plate with the nut tart on it. She'd cut it into small, bite-sized pieces.

"Try it," she prompted John, pointing at the plate.

John, still dazed from the overabundance of contradictory emotions, needed a moment to understand what she was saying. Then he took a piece, more automatic than deliberate, and put it into his mouth. A heavy sweetness. Nutty. Moist. A strong, sensual sensation in the midst of his emotional exhaustion. John looked up, disconcerted. 

Celine smiled. "Can you extend your stay in Switzerland two more weeks?" she asked in a businesslike manner.

"The only thing binding me to London is sitting right here," John replied, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

"So you can?"

"I'll have to let Mrs Hudson know. Maybe Mycroft too."

"Good," said Celine. "Inform Mycroft in any case. You're going to go back to Meiringen and check out of the hotel. If anyone asks, say you're retreating to the Benedictine monastery in Engelberg for two weeks, in order to work through Sherlock's death. The monastery offers regular week-long retreats. Tell Mrs Hudson and Mycroft the same thing. You'll have a mobile connection once you're in Axalp, but don't call until you get to Meiringen. Remember, the antennas can reveal your location. Check out of the Baer, then take the train to Interlaken Ost, store your bags there and come back here. Take everything with you in your backpack that you'll need up here. And buy some groceries. We need coffee, tea and bread. A jar of jam would be good too. And flour. Bring whatever you have room for in your backpack. No shopping bags, that's too conspicuous. You don't need to get any butter, milk, cheese or eggs, I'll get those from the neighbour."

Celine looked at John. "Everything clear?"

John shook his head in confusion. "Why should I do all that?"

"We're going to work on a solution for Sherlock."

"He's leaving for Tibet tomorrow."

"That plan's been put on ice for the time being. You're staying here. Both of you. We need to find a solution, John. For him. And for you. Plan on two weeks."

"Why are you so interested in Sherlock?" John asked. 

The question was sincere. Celine thought about it for a moment, then said, "We have a leak at British Aerospace. Any new discoveries pop up with the French within a very short time, and from there to the Chinese. Someone is selling information and research results. Moriarty has his hand in the game. We set a trap for him at the European arms dealers conference in Ballenberg. But Sherlock got in the way with his private schemes and eliminated Moriarty. Now we need to start all over again."

"The new stealth technology from Pilatus," John said.

Celine gave him a probing look. "I see you're well informed. Sherlock?"

"Mycroft," John said, then asked, "So the visit to the Pilatus works and the cooperation with British Aerospace was all a ruse?"

"That's not the point," Celine answered evasively. "But we need Sherlock to get to Moran. The fact that he's thought to be dead is a real stroke of luck. We'll include you. You know too much already. And you're Sherlock's support system."

"Do I have a choice?" John asked.

"No," said Celine. "Not really. In your own interest, John: no, you don't have any choice."


	11. Expectations

The material cableway stopped at the upper station. The wooden crate swayed back and forth from the abrupt braking manoeuvre, wobbling in the chain fittings. John opened his eyes and got out. His trousers clung to the wood of the crate's bottom, cold and unpleasant. It was raining. John was wet. His waterproof jacket had already failed on the hike from Axalp to the cableway. Water had soaked through. John's trousers and shoes were sodden, the overstuffed backpack heavy with moisture. John heaved it out of the crate, hauled it onto his back. He'd bought and taken care of everything Celine had told him to.

The upper station was gloomy and overcast, visibility poor. Dusk was already falling. The goat bells were far away. The rattling of the rain all around. Far and wide no Sherlock who might have picked him up. John ignored the cold and damp and set off, walked the last bit up to the cabin slow and deliberate. The ground was wet, the stones slippery. The steep ascent warmed him up a little, got his circulation going. That was something anyway.

The cabin lay behind the rock outcropping, dark and unfriendly, enveloped in fog. The shutters were closed. The burbling of the water trough. The patter of the rain. Water gurgled out of the gutter on the roof and disappeared between the rocks. The ground in front of the cabin was softened up and swampy from the water. No signs of life. John became anxious, sceptical as to whether anyone was still there. He walked closer, across the flagstone slabs in front of the door, wiped the wet mud off his shoes. Only now, up close, did he see the narrow band of light under the threshhold of the door. It smelled like wood smoke.

John pushed down the door handle; the door was unlocked, so he pulled it open. Warm air, the spicy aroma of food. Sherlock stood at the stove; he turned around.

"John! Thank God!"

He came over to him, pulled him into the room, closed the door behind him, and took the heavy, wet backpack. A brief, hesitant hug.

"You're soaked through," Sherlock said unnecessarily.

"It's raining."

"I know. Take these things off. I have dry clothes laid out for you."

John took off his wet jacket, shoes and socks, trousers, jumper, and the soaked t-shirt underneath. Even his underwear was wet. John just took everything off, slipped into the dry clothes Sherlock had prepared for him, warm from the fire. Laid out for him. Set in front of the fire so they would be warm and dry when he arrived. It was like a... dream?

"Come and sit," Sherlock said. "Drink this."

He waited until John had sat down at the table, then set a steaming cup in front of him. The drink smelled like... he couldn't place it. John drank it. It was strong, hot tea with something distilled added to it. It must have a high alcoholic content. Warmth immediately spread through John's body.

"Herbal tea with kirsch," Sherlock said. "I couldn't find anything else."

He was smiling. He was actually... smiling. John was confused.

"Sherlock. What is all this?" John asked, unnerved.

"I've been waiting for you," Sherlock said simply. "And getting ready for you."

"Getting ready for me?"

"Surprised?"

John looked at Sherlock, the way he was standing there, smiling.

"You could say that," John answered. "This is all new. Very new. This attention."

"Celine's doing," Sherlock said. "She worked with me all day."

He pointed to a piece of paper on the table. Squared paper. Sherlock's handwriting. John reached for the paper and read it.

_Boredom is inattentiveness._  
_toward:_  
_John_  
_myself_  
_simple necessities_  
_the moment_  
_creation_

_Live in the moment_  
_we (not I or you)_  
_joy_  
_physical contact (any kind)_  
_sexuality_  
_trust_  
_daily routine_

John slid the paper back. Sherlock had returned to cooking. John watched him, feeling wrong-footed. Sherlock was cooking. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. Veering off in a completely wrong direction. Celine had dictated to Sherlock. And Sherlock had obeyed. He was susceptible to manipulation because of his love, tractable due to his emotional insecurity. And John was too. He'd done everything Celine had told him to. For Sherlock. For their relationship. Their love was their weakness, made both of them manageable, made them puppets of the Swiss secret service. They were controllable in every aspect of their lives. They might be together now, but they were trapped. Trapped in this mountain cabin.

Sherlock put the bowl with hash browns on the table, placed two plates and cutlery alongside. He'd melted some of the local cheese over the top of the potatoes, seasoned them with fresh herbs. Their eyes met. Sherlock startled.

"Not good?" he asked uncertainly.

John looked sombrely into the pale eyes. "Thank you, Sherlock," he said in a soft voice. Adding with a smile: "I'm starving."

The food was hot and hearty and tasted excellent. They both ate with a good appetite, even Sherlock, surprisingly.

"You can cook," John said appreciatively.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

They smiled at each other.

"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock asked without any transition, his manner abruptly turning serious. 

John exhaled, flustered. He didn't know what to say. Off the cuff, without reflecting on it. He felt ill at ease because all of this was not okay. The entire situation. A surreal bit of theatre. Sherlock clearly sensed his unease. But where should he start? 

John pushed the empty plate away. He racked his brains, needed more time. He got up, gathered up the dishes, brought them to the sink. He took the dishtowel, cleaned the table, put the towel back. Then he sat down with Sherlock at the table, still thinking. Sherlock had waited. He hadn't pressed, hadn't followed him around, hadn't prompted him to go faster, hadn't rushed John, no impatience, no urgent words. It was... spooky. John looked his friend over.

Then he said quietly, "Sherlock. I don't love you because you think for me and cook for me, because you're considerate or pay attention to me. All of that has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all."

Sherlock reacted with alarm. "You're distancing yourself," he said, visibly shaken. "Why?"

"Look at what's happening here, Sherlock."

"We're sitting in a cabin in the mountains, preparing ourselves to work with the NDB," Sherlock said. It sounded defiant and unsure. 

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock," he said. "No. We're letting ourselves be manipulated. We're controllable through our..." John considered whether to use the word 'love', but then said, "… relationship. We're proving exactly the point that you always made, which is that our emotions make us weak. But that's wrong, Sherlock. It's not our emotions that make us weak. They make us strong. It's our insecurity about them that makes us controllable."

Sherlock looked at him, troubled. Turmoil deep in the sky-blue of his eyes.

"This here," John went on in a low voice, "is not the Sherlock I love."

Sherlock's eyes widened in shock. For a fraction of a second. Then a shadow fell over them. A pale, sharp-edged shadow. The temperature sank immediately. Sherlock was thinking. The wing-beat of his thoughts. John caught himself in the throes of the strong emotions the observation unleashed in him. He knew that shadow so well. The clarity and coolness. Sherlock thinking. That's what John loved about him. The thought process, that selective, analytic thought process. That incorruptible mental power. Sherlock was looking straight into John's eyes. The blue now lucid and unfettered. 

"I want you strong and free, Sherlock," John said.

Cool blue, as clear as water.

"You're not a puppet of your emotions. You're Sherlock," John said. "Even when you love. Especially then. Completely."

The blue open and attentive, transparent as glass. Sherlock's gaze boring into John's. A long time. Searching. John allowed it. Let Sherlock examine him. Verify. Probe. Deeply.

"Are we predictable?" Sherlock asked unexpectedly.

"Romances are predictable," John said slowly.

Sherlock watched him closely. "Why?" he asked.

"High percentage of deep-reaching biochemical processes. Extreme emotional and social dependence."

"Are mental processes inhibited?"

"Inhibited? No. But there's always the danger that they'll be overridden."

Sherlock stared off into the distance for several seconds, processing. Then his eyes sought his friend's again. "What does Celine expect of us?" he asked.

"What do WE expect of us?" John returned the question.

The question hit Sherlock hard. Something flinched in his eyes. But his gaze didn't waver from John's, stuck with him. He didn't try to run away.

"What do you expect of me?" Sherlock asked. His voice sounded hesitant, but he kept looking at John.

John swallowed. Several heartbeats passed before he could answer. Then he said softly, "For you to be yourself. For you to go your own way. Free." John closed his eyes. "Maybe with ..." he started to say, but couldn't end the sentence, fell silent, pained. _… with me, at my side, together. Maybe our love will be enough for us to stay together despite everything, through it all, time and space. Maybe we belong together, can let our love flourish in spite of everything and through it all, maybe we can go and be free together..._

The emotions inundated John without him having any control over them. He couldn't articulate any of those things. He fought against tears. Sherlock's hand on his arm, gentle pressure, a caress, a touch. Warm fingers felt their way into his hand, slid between his, interlaced with them.

"But you know that, John. Don't you?" Sherlock said gently. And after John had nodded: "The only thing we need now is a way out of here."

***

The bedroom was damp and clammy. They took one of the mattresses down to the kitchen, set up a bed for themselves in front of the stove. It was clear to both of them that they would be sleeping together. Had to. Pure necessity. Celine's words. John thought of them when Sherlock's fingers brushed his hand, he didn't know whether it was intent or coincidence, he had no idea anymore. 

They'd washed up together, cleared everything away, stepped outside the door and took in some of the fresh night air, had a look at what the weather was doing, the rain. Sherlock had checked the gutter drain, had run out and come back in from the wet night, dripping, drops in his hair, smiling, their hands had touched, their shoulders grazed as they turned in the doorway to go back into the cabin. Intention or coincidence. The air crackled between them. They had the cabin all to themselves. They had time. They had each other. 

John's heart was beating like crazy, out of rhythm. The way Sherlock looked at him, his proximity, his scent triggered cascades of uncontrolled thoughts and signals. It was breathtaking and mutual. Sherlock played with it. They both did. They strung each other along, enjoyed the almost intolerable tension, the increasing fever. Savoured it. Observed each other, the effect they had on each other. The experience of it all. The knowledge. They had time for each other. For the first time. Time to play.

Sherlock went up to the bedroom and got a blanket and pillows while John put the fitted sheet onto the mattress, surprised when he saw his hands shaking. He shook his head at himself. He stood up, added some wood to the fire. Sherlock came back, spread the blanket and pillows over the mattress. Then he just stood there next to the bed. 

John turned around, looked into Sherlock's eyes. Icy clear, deep water. Denser than dense. Blue crystal. Four degrees Celsius. The culmination. 

Sherlock reached out his hand. John let his fingertips touch his friend's, slid breathlessly along the slender fingers, his gaze lost in icy blue. The field between them collapsed. It wasn't possible to play anymore. That's just how it was. John told himself that's just how it was. That it was Sherlock. That it was both of them, the way they loved. This uncontrollable ferocity that broke loose. That they just accepted the way it was. 

They sank to their knees and pulled their clothes off. Pulled each other down to the mattress, burrowed into each other, accepted each other. Wordless. Hungry. Unrestrained lust. No more games. Pure necessity. They swept each other past the point of climax within no time at all, and they both simply let it happen.

They couldn't settle. It had happened much too fast. Everything was much too fast. John was still restive, ground against Sherlock, who moaned softly. He kissed him. Grateful, affectionate, demanding. It wasn't over. He held Sherlock's lean body in his arms. He'd never touched him. Never deliberately touched him. Never got to know him, stroked him, explored him. Never caressed and made love to him. Really made love. Consciously. To every part of him. It wasn't enough. No, what they did wasn't enough. Did together, allowed to happen. It was too little. Much too little. John caressed Sherlock's heated body, felt the excitement in it. Still. Again. Delirium. Sherlock.

Sherlock took John's face in his hands, gazed into his eyes. A long time. Flames flared up between them, flickered their restless light across their faces. Sherlock pulled John close, embraced him, intimate and filled with fire.

"I want everything," he whispered into John's ear, hoarse, aroused, barely controlled. "I want you. Completely." 

A new universe. John bit Sherlock's ear, a helpless, yearning yes. The kiss that followed left no more doubts.

John got up. He freed himself from Sherlock's embrace and stood up, looked for matches on the stove, lit the gas lamp on the table. He set it down in front of the stove, next to the mattress, peeled back the blanket. Sherlock's nude body.

"I want to see you, Sherlock," he said.

A new universe. Sherlock's eyes open wide. John lowered himself, ran his hands over Sherlock's body. Fingertips. Palms. Tongue. Hot skin. Bones. Muscles. Hollows. Salt. Satin. Sweat. Heat. Hardness. Silk. Wetness. Sherlock's unrestrained moans. A firm hand buried itself in John's hair. Painful. Stopping him. Fever. Delirium. Intoxication. Sherlock rolled onto him. Hot breath, panting. An uninhibited kiss. Sherlock's fingers. Seeking. Wet. John opened to them. Curled toward them as they stroked along his perineium, uncertain, shaky, demanding. Sherlock. 

John knew then that he was ready. For something he'd never so much as contemplated before, never imagined, never considered a possibility. Sherlock. He granted his friend's fingers free admittance, let them probe, invade. Sherlock was gentle. So gentle. So incredibly tender. The intimacy of the touch was overwhelming. The fact that Sherlock was doing it. The lust it incited in him, that he welcomed. 

A new universe. Sherlock. He helped him, guided him, opened to him. Sherlock was careful. John gasped for air. He didn't know this sensation, had never thought it would be possible. This overwhelming desire. A profound longing to give himself. For union. Consensual. A new dimension. It almost robbed him of his sanity. Sherlock pushed into him. Tenderly. Pleading. Sighing. The fire crackled in the stove. The rain outside. Sherlock kissed him, the nape of his neck. Caressed him. Was inside him, filled him up. Panting. Heat. Skin. The smell of sweat and arousal. Sherlock. Tight. Deep. Complete. They stopped. Uninhibited sounds. An unexpected wave of heat. They were together. Inside each other. As close and deep as humanly possible. Sherlock.

"John..."

A whisper at John's ear. John felt Sherlock's pulse inside him. The tightness. A faintly throbbing ecstasy. Sherlock's hand brushed across his penis. John was on the edge of his self-control. Hard, warm fingers rubbed his glans, trembling, hungry, damp, setting off a firestorm. Sherlock drove further in at the same time, his strong contraction shook John, a hot, wet stream. John cried out hoarsely, overcome by the power of the rush.

Sherlock hugged him from behind, held on tightly, stayed inside him. Just stayed. His hand gentle, full of John's semen. His penis warm inside him.

The gas lamp was still burning beside the mattress. They embraced affectionately. Didn't stop touching each other, unable to let go. They lay together and looked into each other's eyes. Free. Deep, with no obstacles between them.

"I belong to you, John," Sherlock said eventually, right before they fell asleep.

***

It was cool when John got up in the morning, extricated himself from Sherlock's arms. Sherlock didn't wake up. He turned over, kept sleeping, buried himself in the pillow, his dark curls tumbling across his face. 

John watched him and smiled. Then he turned to the stove, got it going, put coffee on. He opened the cabin door. It wasn't raining anymore. The sky had cleared. He went outside, naked, went to the water trough, washed his face in the icy water. He hesitated a moment then stepped into the trough, into the ice-cold water, dipped his head under, splashed around, just for a few seconds, snorting, gasping. Then he jumped out, shook off, laughed out loud and free. He hadn't taken the towel outside with him, so the cool morning air chilled him immediately and he hurried back to the door. 

Sherlock stood sleepily in the doorway. John couldn't resist. Impossible. He grabbed his somnolent friend by the arm, dragged him quickly to the trough, and before Sherlock even knew what was happening, John had thrown him in. Sherlock shrieked and grabbed John's arm, pulled him into the water with him. They splashed, laughed, and gasped. They were still laughing when they dried off and got dressed in front of the stove. And there was more laughter during breakfast, even as the gravity and import of what had happened between them eventually overtook them.


	12. The Leather Strap

"Left," John said. "The heart side."

Sherlock withdrew his right arm and placed his left one on the table. John slid the plaited leather bracelet under Sherlock's wrist and knotted the ends. He'd made the dry leather strap wet and stretched it so he could work it more easily. It had been tied to his own wrist for so long. So long. The knot dried out from the desert sand. Singed from the sun of Afghanistan. Soaked with sweat and water and tears and blood. John recalled the many moments in which he'd felt the bracelet's presence. Before battles. During emergency medical procedures. While bandaging hopeless wounds. Digging graves. Endless marches in the burning sun. Exhaustion. Grieving fallen comrades. Loneliness and pain, feeling lost and yearning. And he remembered taking it off. In his tiny bedsit in London, how he'd softened it with his wrist in water, picked apart the ends at the table, undone the knot. An hour before he'd met Sherlock in the laboratory at Bart's for the first time. As if he'd had a premonition.

John tied the bracelet around his friend's slim wrist with a fisherman's knot, pulled the wet strap tight, tucked the sticking-out ends carefully inside the twisted strips. Sherlock watched him, quiet and observant. John's face, his eyes, the warm, confident fingers working on his wrist, against his skin, touching and brushing over it, over and over, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. John's breath. John's reflectiveness. The memories. Emotions. John's serenity. Sherlock didn't pull back his hand, not even once John had secured the bracelet, nudged it into position on the pale skin, let go slowly, hesitantly. Sherlock left his hand beside John's on the table. John let his fingers rest on Sherlock's hand. Their fingers touched, felt for each other. John raised his head. Their eyes met.

"You'll get used to it."

Sherlock nodded faintly.

John's heart was heavy. That wasn't what he'd wanted to say. He felt lost in his memories. Lost in everything he was doing, and had done. The bracelet on Sherlock's wrist. All the memories. Those years. All the emotions. He'd created a link between them and Sherlock. Handed them over to him. Into his care. His life. It was the only option he had left. An old leather strap, full of pain. Their only connection for many, many weeks. Maybe months. Years. Maybe forever.

"I'll bring it back to you," Sherlock said quietly. His voice trembled. They were still looking into each other's eyes. Their gaze unbroken. Deep. Their hands had interlaced.

***

Those were six long, beautiful days in the cabin up on the Rottalp. They'd made good use of them. For themselves. They'd taken long walks, told each other stories, talked, been silent. They'd cooked, baked, slept, laughed, and made love. And they'd analysed their situation, examined it, developed strategies. Made plans. Behind Celine's back. Behind everyone's back. For themselves.

Celine had left them alone for two days. Then she'd arrived on Thursday afternoon, bringing milk, cheese and eggs. No prior notice. Early in the afternoon. Calm. Firm. Celine made no bones about the fact that there was a goal they were working toward, and that John and Sherlock were meant to cooperate. She observed them both, checked on the situation. She talked to each of them separately, and together. She left behind lists with assignments and rules to live by. John and Sherlock played along. They'd prepared, constructed detailed lies. Celine seemed satisfied.

She returned on Saturday, this time in the morning. She surprised John and Sherlock having one of the boisterous baths they'd taken to indulging in after their nights of passion. She stepped grumpily across the rumpled bed in front of the stove.

"Please use the upstairs room," she said coolly. "You can push the beds together. There's too much danger of a fire right in front of the stove. The house is made of wood. A single spark would do it." She added some tinder and blew into the stove. There were still hot coals left from the night before.

"And as long as there are hot coals in the stove, please don't leave the door open without keeping an eye on it. You'll burn the whole house down if the foehn comes up."

She was clearly in a bad mood. She made coffee. She'd brought fresh bread and apples along this time. While John and Sherlock got dressed and moved the bed upstairs, she prepared breakfast and set it out on the wooden table in front of the cabin. Her temper had improved by then.

"It looks like you're doing well," she said with a smile.

"Sherlock and I have time for each other," John said, and he meant it honestly and sincerely. "We've never had that before, time for each other."

Celine nodded in satisfaction. Then she turned to Sherlock. "Have you had any problems with boredom?" she asked.

Sherlock chewed on his bread and cheese. He took a sip of coffee and swallowed it all down. "Not yet," he said.

Celine watched him, smiling. "You shouldn't drink with your mouth full. Has no one ever taught you that?" she asked.

Sherlock was nonplussed. John was interested to see it was possible to startle Sherlock with a question like that.

"We're at a rustic mountain cabin," Sherlock said in his defense.

Celine smiled. "I don't really care how you eat," she said. "But you'll be moving in high society circles pretty soon. What I want to know is: do you know the rules for how to behave? Or do you need some tutelage?"

Sherlock gaped at her incredulously. Then he said, with a note of indignation, "I'm a Holmes!"

Celine nodded. "Good," she said. "Now about the foehn."

She launched into a lecture about the foehn, a warm downslope wind that neither Sherlock nor John had ever heard of. Celine explained that the conditions for a foehn wind were developing. A low pressure area was bottled up south of the Alps, with a negative pressure situation in the north. The pressure would be released over the Alps, resulting in sinking air masses that caused friction against the rocks, heat, downward winds, storms, warmth, destruction.

"It will push the fire into the cabin through the chimney," she said. "You must not light the stove. Absolutely no fires when the foehn comes through. Inside or out. Is that clear? It won't take long before it starts to rain and everything is over. Have you understood? Oh, and one other thing: close everything up tight. Sometimes things start flying around. And no matter what you do, don't use the cableway."

Celine had taken the passport with Sherlock's new identity back with her that first day. She didn't have it with her this time either; a sign that the time hadn't yet come for Sherlock to start his mission, that she wanted to keep him and John at the cabin for a while yet. But she started preparing Sherlock for his new role. She spoke extensively about the person he was going to become: Patrick Peters. The photograph, retouched electronically, showed Sherlock as a blond man with a buzz cut.

"We're going to change you, Sherlock," she said. "Your appearance too. Try to get used to it."

She spoke a lot about the fictitious Patrick Peters, sketched out his life, his characteristics, his habits. She did this freely in John's presence. That made it clear that John was to be involved in some capacity, as someone in Patrick's life. His stabilising point of contact, of some kind. Partner, colleague, friend, brother, cousin – something. John would be leading a double life. Officially, he would mourn for Sherlock, and at the same time he would have something going on with Patrick. 

John and Sherlock exchanged a look, and John knew right then in that fraction of a second that he could never betray Sherlock, and never would either. Never. Not even with Patrick Peters, who was some kind of mutilated version of Sherlock. He couldn't do it. And he didn't want to. He didn't want to play this bloody game. It was only a brief moment of rebellion, a flash of refusal. But it had disastrous consequences. 

Celine's gaze passed over John and rested on his a fraction of a second too long. There was a reflection in Celine's eyes, a contraction of her pupils. A shadow. John knew then that she had caught him, that she saw through him. A sensitive seismograph, a tiny hitch in a complex web. Celine sat inside it like a spider, able to sense and pinpoint the smallest movement and change. She kept talking as if nothing had happened. John tried to listen attentively, to show interest. But it was too late. John struggled internally, knowing he was giving himself away even more in doing so. Celine knew that her plan couldn't work. That John wasn't going to play along, that Sherlock's mission was in danger.

"She's suspicious," Sherlock said once Celine had left. "It's time. We need to act, John."

"I gave us away," John said miserably.

But Sherlock disagreed. "Whatever it was, John, we knew it was coming, something was going to set it off. If not some action or emotion, then the passage of time. It's fine. Let's just accept it."

There was no way to move forward with Celine. She was frighteningly intelligent. John would have rather worked with her. But she was from the NDB. She had objectives that didn't line up with theirs. They'd gone over it and discussed it several times the past few days, he and Sherlock. There was no way to cooperate with her.

***

No time to lose. Celine was gone, but she would return, her plans already changed, measures taken. They had no time to lose now. They'd planned eveything, thought of every eventuality. Weighed up and minimised the dangers. Reason versus heart. They weren't going to risk anything. They both knew what that meant.

They made the bed in front of the stove again for that last night, despite Celine's warning. They knew they were going to sleep together. Sherlock packed the backpack, just the bare necessities, burnt everything that might have given them away, the instructions from Celine, the notes. Clothes they couldn't or didn't want to take with them. They ate together and drank tea. Said what there was left to say. John tightened the leather bracelet around Sherlock's wrist.

"There's an incredibly beautiful and vivid garden in my mind palace," Sherlock said that final evening. "It's yours, John. When I'm there, I know how you smell, how you feel. Your hands, your body, your soul. The look in your eyes. When I'm there, I know what love is. I'll protect and nurture that garden for us."

John nodded. Any words he might have said stuck in his throat.

"I have more data stored about you than anything else," Sherlock added. He tried to smile. They were both crying.

They took their time, one last time. They made love, slow and gentle. Profound bliss. A stream of hot tears. Sherlock set out around 2 a.m. John cried out with pain when Sherlock's fingers slipped out of his hand, broke off contact. He clung to the doorframe and cried out into the night. He sensed Sherlock's hesitation, but then he was gone. There was no other way. John sank to the ground by the door-jamb and cried his heart out.

***

The wind blew in John's face, waking him. The first rays of dawn. A distant rustling and howling. Odd, glassy light. John sat in the open doorway, damp with tears, exhausted from the pain. A gust of wind reached into the water trough, spraying water. The shutters rattled in the draft. John was instantly alert. The wind was coming from the mountain. In strong, irregular gusts. Warm and ominous. The foehn. Sherlock. Sherlock was out there somewhere in this storm. Or maybe not. Maybe he was already in a safe location. 

John went into the cabin. The wind sang in the chimney. A downdraft forced a rain of sparks out of the stove into the room. Alarmed, John jerked the bed away from the stove, stamped out the sparks. He'd wanted to stay and tidy everything up, secure their retreat, get rid of any traces they might have left and then return to London in his own time. Before Celine could change her plans. But he changed his mind on the spur of the moment. With the surety of a sleepwalker. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind. It was the hand of fate.

John went to the upper room, put on waterproof clothing and his hiking shoes, stuffed his passport, papers, and wallet into the pocket of his jacket. He tossed the rest of his clothes into the fire. Sparks flew out at him when he opened the door. Flames licked hungrily at the textiles, sending out hissing tongues that gobbled up the material immediately. John left the stove door open. He left the hut without a bag. The stove spat hot coals out into the room. John simply walked away. 

He went to the material cableway, pushed the green button and got in. He closed his eyes and held fast to the wooden crate. A plaything of the storm. The crate banged against masts and trees, groaned, rocked, and swayed, but it held out. John got out at the lower station and sent the cableway back up. He walked down to Axalp. 

The forest he had to traverse was a raging hell. Branches flew around. Crashing and howling. Roaring cacophony. John simply kept walking straight on. Thumbing his nose at fate. He didn't care, simply didn't care what happened around him. It would have been fine with him if he'd died. He would have welcomed it. He scorned all of creation and asked to be struck dead, to disappear beneath the chaos. Sherlock was gone. Everything, anything at all, was less painful than that.  
John walked to Interlaken Ost and got into a train to the Zurich airport. He didn't claim his bags. He just got on the train. Once in Zurich, he took the next flight to London, hoping that a bomb would explode, that he would crash. But he arrived in London in one piece. He made his way to Baker Street, walked up the stairs to the flat, and locked himself in.


	13. Epilogue

Two and a half years later.   
London, 221B Baker Street.   
The end of November.

It was cold and wet, had been raining for days. John came home that evening from his shift at Bart's. His footsteps were tired as he climbed the stairs. Mrs Hudson had left his mail on the second-to-last step before the door to his flat, as usual. John looked through it. The Times, bills, adverts, a card. A postcard, from someone's holidays. John turned it over. It wasn't stamped. Addressed to Dr John Watson. No street, no number, no city. It couldn't have come with the mail, someone must have dropped it into the mailbox by hand. In block letters, no recognisable handwriting.

I'M COMING TO RETURN YOUR BRACELET.  
8 PM. 221B  
ILUSH

John put his hand over his mouth so he wouldn't shout out loud. He felt the strength leave his legs, his vision went black. He reached for the wall to hold himself up, then he sank down against it, gasping, sat down on the stairs, bereft of energy. His heart was racing, he struggled to breathe. Tears flooded his eyes. He couldn't control them. Sherlock.

Then a sudden shock. John pushed back the sleeve of his jacket with shaky hands, looked at his watch. 8:03 p.m. John's heart threatened to burst. Was Sherlock already here? Had he been and left again? He pulled himself together, got to his feet, put his hand on the doorknob. A brief hesitation, then he turned it. 

The flat was locked. John fumbled for the key, unlocked the door with trembling fingers. The flat was dark and empty. John took off his damp jacket, hung it on the hook, slipped out of his shoes. He went into the bathroom, washed the tears off his face with ice-cold water, turned the tap off again. Light footsteps in the hall. A soft knock. John dried his face and forced himself to be calm. Someone opened the door to the flat. John checked the mirror, looked into his wide-open grey eyes, at the light shining in their depths.

"John?"

John shuddered when he heard the voice. He clung to the sink, closed his eyes for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, straightened his back, and nodded to himself in the mirror. John. That was him. He'd waited for Sherlock for two and a half years. And 'ILUSH' left everything open to hope. More than he'd dared wish for. He pushed himself away from the sink and walked into the living room, his heart pounding.

 

THE END

 

_Author's Note: For those who aren't familiar with the abbreviation: ILUSH = I love you. SH_


End file.
